Obeisance
by Lywinis
Summary: Sebastian knew that Andraste was testing him. She was temptation personified. He was only a man, and it was only a matter of time before he broke. A story of Sebastian learning, losing, gaining, and losing again, told from his point of view. Will span the Champion's time in Kirkwall, the retaking of Starkhaven, and beyond.
1. Spindleweed

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter One: Spindleweed

* * *

Sebastian hesitated at the door to the Blooming Rose, the sights and sounds bringing back unwanted memories that clouded his thoughts in a film of filth. If Hawke hadn't asked him to come along, he would never have thought to set foot into the brothel. Still, he waited, even as Hawke pushed her way through the crowds of patrons and painted ladies alike toward the bar. He had only known her for a few days, and she had proven herself to be a remarkable woman.

An apostate in a town known for its harsh restrictions of magic, she helped him when no one else would, even though he resided in the Chantry and kept its laws. Until he had met her, he could say he kept them all in good faith – but now he hesitated at reporting her to the Templars. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself.

She was confident, quick to smile and make a jest, and did not seem concerned with Templars in the slightest. A small woman, with ruddy red hair and green eyes that snapped with intelligence, Hawke stood out in a crowd. The stubborn turn of her mouth only showed when she was making a point; most of the time, it lay laughing beneath a smattering of freckles across her nose.

He was grateful to her for the help she had provided; he told himself that it was the reason he kept his silence. She'd asked him to accompany them if he had time, and he'd agreed – the cathedral walls of the Chantry in Hightown had been closing in on him far more than he would have liked.

Hawke had her sense of humor – to drag a lay brother of the Chantry to a brothel…

He'd been in many places like these, before he had decided to submit to the Maker's will. As a young man, he'd drunk and debauched his way across half of the Free Marches before his father had caught up to him. He winced, remembering _that_ particular conversation. He was better off now, confident in his belief in the Maker and his Bride, firm in his vows to be chaste, and he sent a quick prayer of thanks to Andraste that it was so.

The raucous laughter and bawdy singing weren't enough to make him uncomfortable, but the memories were there, and it shamed him. His steps slowed, and then stopped, just outside the entrance. Varric looked back, a thick sandy brow raised in question.

"You coming, Choir Boy?" The grin that was forming on the dwarf's face was not one that Sebastian liked. That was the grin that Varric wore when he was spinning a tale that was not at all flattering to the subject, Sebastian had found. He forced himself across the threshold, into the smoky air of the brothel. Varric laughed and found himself a seat in the corner while Hawke spoke with the bartender in a low undertone, trying to find information about a noble's son who had gone missing a few days ago.

The dwarf seemed to have a girl in his lap in an instant, and Sebastian turned away as Varric called for some ale. Anders was in a discussion with one of the other girls, her belly heavy and swollen with child. The mage pressed a poultice into her hand, waving away the offer of coin. Sebastian resisted the urge to congratulate Anders on his charity; to do so would only start an argument, as it had the last four times Sebastian had spoken to the apostate. Instead, he to look around the main room.

He coughed at the unfamiliar smoky burn of dried spindleweed leaf. It was a new habit of the lazy nobles in Kirkwall to light clay pipes of the foul stuff, and the smell made his vision swim as he became nauseous. His world tilted to the right as he made his way between the tables of courtesans and customers to the bar where Celeste Hawke stood. She had given up on the bartender, and turned instead to speak to one of the…entertainers. (Sebastian tried to think with charity, for they only did what they did to keep their bellies full, Maker bless them.) The woman had a small child playing by her feet who favored her.

"Are you sure that's all you can tell me?" Hawke looked upset, and Sebastian tried to clear his head enough so that he could pay attention, but the world was muzzy and unimportant. The leaf was having a profound effect on him, making his limbs feel leaden and heavy, and causing his vision to tunnel and tilt. He felt drowsy, but tried to pay attention to Hawke, who seemed much farther away than she did a few minutes ago. He was floating in a pleasant haze, and he could see the individual reds that blended into the ruddy tones of Hawke's hair as she moved in the torchlight. He wanted to reach out and touch…

A pair of slender hands attached to soft arms encircled his waist, a slight form pressing itself against his back. His back stiffened, a strangled gasp somehow escaping him, and tinkling laughter sounded in his ear. One hand moved lower to skim his groin, and his eyes widened as he tried to jerk himself free of his captor. The leaf slowed his reflexes, and all he managed was a half-step forward.

"What have we here? I seen you in the Chantry. You're tha' new lay brother they have singing the Chant at noontide," said a breathy voice in his ear. "You looking for some fun, holy man?"

He couldn't manage to utter a coherent sentence. He was panicking, he couldn't get enough air. _Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just…_

His mind was gibbering at him to get away from this woman, his chest was tightening, she was trying to reach the laces of his trews - _sweet Andraste, someone help me – _

"Please let go of my companion." The voice was full of laughter laced with the strength of steel, light in the darkness that was swallowing him, and he clung to it, to consciousness as the woman's hands were removed from his nethers. His arm was thrown over someone's shoulder, the weight of another body pressed against his side, supporting him as he half-walked, half-staggered outside. The cool night air of Hightown hit his face, and the nausea swept over him threefold as he staggered to a bench in a hidden recess. He fell to his knees next to the bench and retched, emptying the contents of his stomach into the manicured flowerbed that bordered the sidewalk.

Soft fingers stroked his sweaty hair from his forehead, rubbed his back in circular motions as he heaved. The Voice urged him to get it out of his system, to get it all up, and he obeyed, feeling better now that there was no food in him. He slumped against the one that held him, panting with his exertion. His mind was clearing, and he heard the Other breathing in a steady, calming rhythm, could feel the thump of a heartbeat. The gentle fingers continued to slide through his hair, soothing him. The scent of honeysuckle wafted to him, evoking a memory of something he couldn't place in his disoriented state.

At last, he felt well enough to look up. His head was nestled in Hawke's bosom as she held him. He flushed and jerked upright, feeling scalded. He tried to scramble to his feet, only to fall as his legs would not support him in their jelly-like state.

He expected mockery, but there was none. Hawke helped him regain his feet and settled him on the bench. She pushed his head down so that it was between his knees and instructed him to keep it there, which was just as well, because it helped to hide his mortification.

"You should have told me you'd never been exposed to leafsmoke," she said. Her voice was gentle, and her hands were warm with healing magic as she rubbed the base of his neck. Soothing waves rippled through him, making him long to stretch like a cat against the fingers. He bit the inside of his cheek and concentrated on breathing in shallow breaths.

"I remember the first time someone in the Red Iron tried to get me to smoke some. The smell alone made me feel like I was going to throw up the soles of my shoes." She chuckled, the sound low and sensual. It sent a hum through his taut nerves, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight, begging Andraste for strength. "You get used to it, after a while. I'm sorry you had to find out the hard way. Shallow breaths, that's it. You'll be right as rain here in a few moments."

Her fingers moved in slow circles along the nape of his neck as he sat there, his breathing finally returning to normal. The patterns were random, tickling the short hairs there, slowing, and then stopping, her hand resting there in silent communion. He sat up with a wince, and felt a mild pang of regret that she moved her fingers to rest them in her lap. The feeling was squashed almost as soon as it formed, because those thoughts led down the road to temptation.

He drew a shaky breath, relished the fact that he didn't want to retch up what was left of his stomach, and gave her a crooked smile that just three years ago would have had her eating out of the palm of his hand had he wanted it. He tamped down on _that_ thought process too. She was simply concerned for his well-being.

She was a good person, he had seen it. She did this for all of them, there was no special exception, and he was in no position to act on it if it was. He cleared his throat.

"I am sorry for my weakness. I had no idea it was that potent." He realized she was smiling back, and he noted a bottom tooth that had been chipped – perhaps in a childhood accident. It was oddly endearing.

Unique.

"Just don't go back in there for anything for a few days. After that, you'll have no problems with it unless you actually try to smoke the leaf yourself." Her tone turned teasing. "You'll have to wait to break their hearts, unfortunately. They thought you were the cutest thing, stammering bits and pieces of the Chant."

He gave a groan and covered his face with his hands, scrubbing with work-roughened palms to cover his embarrassment. She gave another low laugh that sizzled up his nerves, and he fought the urge to encourage that laughter. "Varric is never going to let me hear the end of this."

"No, no he isn't."

* * *

He made his way back to the Chantry after assuring her he would be all right. It was late, only a few initiates about when he closed the large door behind himself. The hushed whispers of their conversation washed over him with the smell of incense, and he closed his eyes for a moment to let the feeling of _right_ cleanse him. He nodded at them as he passed.

The wing where his room was located was dark. He was the only lay brother in residence, and he found the solitude preferable. He lit a stub of candle he kept on a table by the entrance, making his way to the dormitory at the end of the hall. His gear was deposited in a neat bundle by the door, and he set the candle down on the rough table by the bed.

He really did feel better. His nausea was almost gone and his head was clear. _Hawke's healing magic is truly something to behold_, he thought. Anders would not have been as gentle. His dislike of Sebastian was very clear. He gave a mental shrug as he poured his basin full of water to wash before bed. He did not care what the apostate thought of him.

He stripped to the waist, shivering a little at the chill in the air. He dampened his rag and rubbed the cake of brown soap into it, working up a rough lather. He passed the cloth over his forearms and biceps, goosebumps erupting across his chest at the cold water. He scrubbed, his touch spare and utilitarian. Sometimes, on nights like these, he felt a vague urge for a hot bath and a goblet of wine, such as he would have had if he had not chosen a life of service to the Maker.

He dried himself with his shirt and tossed it in his hamper, dropping his boots next to the bed as he sat. Sometimes he still thought about those days. He didn't miss them, but some of the comforts would have been welcome in the sparse room.

He could almost smell the scented soaps that the innkeeper would charge exorbitant prices for. He had paid, because he was young and foolish, showing off his money to impress the woman he was with that night. He gave a small snort and stretched out on the bed, his arms behind his head.

As he lay there waiting for sleep to claim him, his mind began to wander. It touched briefly on Andraste, as it always did, and he whispered a prayer.

"Thank you, Andraste, for answering my pleas for aid. My family has found peace, thanks to a woman of impeccable character."

That, of course, brought Hawke's face to the forefront of his mind. He focused on her chipped tooth, smiling at the thought of a young girl getting into a scrap to protect her sibling. He had seen how protective of Carver she was, even if the man looked rather smothered by the attention. He could see her, muddy and covered in scrapes as she got into all sorts of mischief.

He slid under his blankets, chafing his arms to warm them. Another thought flashed through his mind as he shivered in the cold of the room.

_Hawke, curled under their blankets with his head in her lap, reading to him from an obscure text while he dozed, sleepy from their lovemaking. She reached down, her hand curled into the nape of his neck, her blunt fingernails rasping through the hair there as she read._

He opened his eyes, half expecting to see her face above him. He threw an arm over his eyes. This was a moment of weakness. He'd had them before, and he would again. Andraste was forgiving, and he was only human. He prayed again, starting to doze off at last.

The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was the scent of honeysuckle.

* * *

A/N: No, I'm not screwing with you. _Obeisance _is back, and edited to be better than it was. Every chapter has something changed, and there is now a new chapter before Sunder, because I felt that it needed to be added. Please feel free to peruse at your leisure. Chapter sixteen should be along here in a day or so. For now, enjoy the reboot of _Obeisance_, and as always, thanks for reading.

~Lywinis


	2. Salt

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Two: Salt

* * *

He didn't mind traveling with Hawke.

It was nice to get out of the Chantry sometimes, despite the strength of his convictions. He didn't hold well with the viewpoint of some of the cloistered sisters that the only way to truly experience Andraste's voice was to separate oneself from the sins of man. He knew that he had to experience the world if he was to offer guidance and succor to those in need of the Maker's touch.

Locking himself away in the Chantry would accomplish nothing but alienating him from those he wished to light with Andraste's holy flame. And he had always been a man of action. He would much rather be _doing_ than speaking. It was one of the many of his flaws that the Gracious Lady forgave.

Slavers. His lip curled in disdain as they cleared out another nest of them on the Wounded Coast. Most of them were thuggish and unintelligent. The ones that weren't called the shots, and knew better than to challenge Hawke in the open; it didn't stop them from trying to ambush the group as they made their way through the rocky, dripping caves that dotted the coast like pockmarks. They materialized out of the very air sometimes, appearing from the shadows to feint in, only to be felled by bolt, arrow and the sizzling snap of magic.

Their search for the missing child had taken a sickening turn. The noble had refused to pay the ransom that appeared on his doorstep in the hands of an urchin. Hawke told him not to do it; she reasoned that the child would be sold as soon as the ransom was received.

The next urchin on his doorstep delivered a lock of bloody hair. The noble father was frantic, doubling the amount of coin he would pay to them if his son was only brought back alive. Hawke calmed the man, plying him with an herbal tea while assuring him that she would find his child. Slavers would not kill cargo, especially children, if they could help it. An able bodied slave was worth his weight in gold, and the boy was only eight years old; there was time to train him before he was set in his ways. They had set out for the coast on the hour, grim-faced with intent.

Hawke was unconcerned with the ambushes, only with the end result of their search. Varric's sources had revealed that the noble's son had already been passed off to a bolt hole along the coast, to be loaded onto a passing ship bound for the Imperium. Sebastian's gut churned as the day grew longer, certain the boy had already been traded. Varric dismissed the idea, claiming that the slavers would wait until the cover of darkness to make the trade. Hawke agreed, but the set of her jaw and the length of her stride betrayed her own inner turmoil.

He tried to ignore it. Maker knows he tried hard. He had caught himself sneaking glances at the way she moved, waiting for unguarded moments when he could watch those expressive green eyes. He berated himself for it, trying to reason with himself that he was simply appreciating her as a companion. He felt the squirming sensation in his chest that he always felt when he lied, even to himself. Well, that was what confession was for, he supposed. Still, he resolved to strengthen his willpower.

He couldn't help but notice the way her shoulders slumped as yet another cavern proved frustrating in its emptiness. They emerged from the dank hole, the afternoon sunlight leaving spots in his vision that danced in front of his closed eyelids. All of them startled when she drove her staff into the sand with an irritated yell. She fisted her hands in her hair as the men looked on, shock coloring their faces. Hawke did not lose her temper often, which was a testament, Sebastian thought, to her self-control. The fact that she was now throwing a mild temper tantrum was telling of her panic and fear.

She snatched up her weapon and stalked in a random direction, and he found his feet were following of their own accord. Varric and Anders both hissed at him to leave her alone, but he felt obligated to try and help. The mage and the dwarf shook their heads, Anders shooting him a suspicious look that he ignored. He was only trying to help her calm down, not take advantage of her, after all.

_Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one of these times, you'll believe yourself._

He shook off the mutinous thoughts and moved to where she knelt, scribbling in her journal. A map of the coast was laid out in front of her, the locations of the caves they had already visited marked out. She was murmuring to herself as she wrote, making notes to herself in illegible, cramped short hand that only she could understand. She marked out a line of her own handwriting, voicing something in a negative tone with a minute shake of her head, sending her short locks to bouncing.

His fingers itched to smooth the hair away from her eyes. He clenched his fists, telling his fingers very firmly to sod off.

Instead, he went to one knee in the sand next to her, looking at the map for an excuse to be there. The scribbling and muttering slowed in pace as she realized he was there, and she heaved a sigh.

"You must think I'm insane," she said, pushing the hair out of her eyes with an ink-smudged hand.

"Startled, is all," he replied, still looking at the map but not really seeing it. "This really bothers you."

She nodded. "The boy…he's only eight. I remember when Carver was eight. I just get so _angry_, Sebastian. Boys that age are supposed to be dipping their sister's pigtails in ink and hiding frogs in their underthings for their mothers to find later, or covered in mud. Not being tied up and terrified in some slaver's filthy cargo deck. If they've harmed him, I'll turn them inside out, and that's just to start."

His lips twitched upward in a smile as he shot a sidelong glance at her. "_Those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of heaven. Field and forest shall burn, the seas shall rise and devour them, the wind shall tear their nations from the face of the earth, and lightning shall rain down from the sky. They shall cry out to their false gods, and find silence._"

She huffed a laugh. "Comparing me to Andraste? That's a bit blasphemous, isn't it?"

"Not if it's flattering." Oh, Maker's merciful grace, he was going to have to go to confession for _hours_. The smile she flashed him, chipped tooth and all, made it worth it. It warmed him to his toes and he almost looked forward to repenting if that was the thanks he got.

He looked back at the map, struggling to focus on the task at hand. His mission to cheer her up had succeeded, and he needed to help her find the boy. Even this brief interlude was wasting what precious little time they had to find him. His eyes slid, unfocused, over the map, and he noticed something.

His fingertip traced the places they had been. Something niggled at him, and he tapped a point on the map, a jutting outcropping of rock that hove into the sea like a blade. It was perhaps two miles from where they were, and they would reach it long before sundown.

"There…yes. Hawke, look at this. This is the spot." He tapped again to draw her attention to the location. "The other bolt holes had supplies in them, but no slaves, because they're decoys. This one is close enough to the sea that a longboat can be launched safely, even in the dark of night. See the beach that slopes down to the side of the cliff? I imagine the cliff itself is useful too, for signaling with a lantern."

He heard the intake of breath that came with her realization that he was right. "That's not far from here. We should check it out, just to be sure." She tried to hide the hope that bled into her voice, but he knew he was right. He could feel it.

She squeezed his hand before packing away her maps. "Thank you, Sebastian. I would never have seen that on my own."

"You're welcome," he said. His fingers, the mutinous bastards, were tingling. He resolved to copy manuscripts later to punish them. He rose to his feet with his harness creaking and held out a hand to help her up. "Come on, let's get Varric and Anders. We need to hurry."

* * *

Soon enough, the party reached the point on the map that marked the secluded beach and the cliff that overtopped it. He squinted, trying to see if there were obvious signs of the caves around the beach being occupied. If there were, the setting sun blocked them out. Varric and Anders fanned out next to him, falling into step behind Hawke as she led the way. The shurring of the waves against the beach made him think it a peaceful place, despite the reason they were here in the first place.

"Look." The waver in Hawke's voice made his head snap around, his eyes following her outstretched finger as she pointed at a small, huddled figure at the top of the cliff. The boy. His eyes narrowed. His instincts screamed trap.

"We should split up, look for obvious tracks," Hawke said. Her eyes hadn't left the little boy on the cliff.

"This is right up there with 'what could possibly go wrong?' as one of my least favorite scenarios, Hawke," Varric said. "Everything about this situation makes Bianca's trigger itchy as hell."

"I agree. There's no reason to leave him out there except as bait for anyone with the ransom money to try and rescue." Sebastian slipped the bow off his shoulder, stringing it in a fluid motion. "I like this less and less."

"Varric, he's alone up there, and it looks like his hands and feet are bound. Who knows how long he's been like that? He could be dying of exposure." Her jaw was set in a stubborn line.

The dwarf threw up his hands. "All the sense of a nug...all right, _all right_. Fine. I'll bite. Take one of us with you while you get the boy, to cover your back. The other two will fan out along the beach and try to intercept trouble as it comes." _Not __**if**__ it comes, but __**when**__ it comes._ His respect for Varric rose a notch. He had good instincts.

"Sebastian." She turned to him, and his fingers tightened on the wood of his bow. "You have the longest range of any of us. You can keep an eye on me. The cliffs are narrow enough for you to pick off anyone who tries to come at us long before they reach us. No offense to Bianca, of course, Varric."

"None taken. Bianca is a lady of very specialized skillsets. She sacrifices range for reload speed and power, but the long game was never my forte anyway. C'mon, Blondie. I'll go right, you go left. Let's root out this ambush."

"Be careful, Hawke." Anders fixed her with a long look that made Sebastian's eyes narrow at the apostate. Anders noticed, and sneered at Sebastian before walking down the slope to the beach. Sebastian resolved to keep an even closer eye on the mage. Although it was probably just Anders showing his usual dislike for Sebastian, he didn't like that look.

They moved towards the boy, Sebastian in front. His eyes were sharp, and he held up a hand that brought Hawke up short. He pointed at the pressure plate a few inches from her foot. Fishing his slim eating knife out of his belt, he worked it carefully under the plate and disabled the mechanism.

"I knew you were the right one for the job."

"The Maker blessed me with talents. It would be a sin not to use them." He slid the knife back into its sheath and they made their way up the winding path to the top of the cliff. He disabled three more traps, all set at places between the rocks that bordered the path that would leave someone who blundered into them exposed to enemy fire. His instincts were fair to screaming at him now, his nerves a-jangle and the short hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

The boy was not moving. Sebastian's heart leapt into his throat at the sight. The child was too thin, manacled about the wrists and ankles, which were caked with dried blood. Hawke was running then, dropping to her knees next to the boy and gathering him into her arms. He knelt beside her as she frantically tried to rouse the child.

_Blessed Andraste, no…_

He lived, but barely. A slow breath hitched in his thin chest. Hawke slapped the boy's cheek lightly with her fingertips, trying to bring him to consciousness, but he was unresponsive, his eyes glassy and far-seeing when she peeled his eyelids open.

"He's been out here for days. Look at the sunburn. Those_ bastards._" Hawke's face was a thundercloud as she scrabbled at her belt for her water skin. She held it to the boy's lips and dribbled some of the liquid into his mouth. He coughed, his breath rasping out in a harsh gurgle. He finally seemed to respond to the water, feeble hands trying to take the neck of the skin from her.

"Shh, here. That's it. Not too much. Drink slow. You're going to be all right. You're safe now. I've got you." She crooned to the little boy, whispering nonsense, and the hitch in her voice nearly broke his heart.

Satisfied the boy was being cared for, he nocked an arrow and stood, his eyes sweeping the base of the path for movement. The top of the cliff was a part of the sword blade of land that jutted out toward the Waking Sea, the dark blue of the tumultuous waves crashing beneath them assured him that the water was very deep there. The cliff was high, with jagged rocks that broke the waves that beat onto them with a sluice of foam. He scanned the horizon, a futile hope that he might see the Imperium ship at anchor there. The only thing that broke the line of blue on dark blue of the sea and sky were a few wheeling seagulls, their cries mournful in the afternoon sunlight.

"Sebastian, I can't get his chains off. Can you help me?"

"You'll need to keep watch."

"Of course."

He knelt again, taking the boy from her. He was light, his bones like a bird's. Dirty blonde hair was matted to his head, and Sebastian could see dried blood that was caked into the locks close to the boy's temple.

Sebastian scowled as he dug his lockpicks out of his belt, a relic of his past that was still useful in doing the Maker's work. The thin metal wires slid into the keyholes of the manacles, and he leaned the boy against him while he worked, keeping him as comfortable as possible while still being able to use both his hands.

She stood and prowled around him, her eyes on the path below. She kept stopping and peering over his shoulder, her concern for the boy overriding the concern she felt for their safety. He opened the first cuff, and took the breath to tell her to watch the path, but he never got the chance.

"Hawke! Grab something sharp and pointy, we've got company!" Varric's shout was punctuated by the ratcheting _thunk_ of Bianca as she pumped bolts into whatever Varric was encountering below. Cries of pain wafted up over the sound of crashing waves, and he laid the boy on the ground to take up his bow.

Hawke moved next to the boy, a green glow suffusing the ground around her and encompassing the boy in the rune's eerie light. She readied her staff, her eyes flashing in anger. He knew that look, and he said a brief prayer for the souls of the slavers, because from the look on her face, he figured they would need it.

Rumbles of thunder from the left of the cliff signaled that Anders had also found trouble. The apostate was more than able to take care of himself, however, as several shouts that were cut short with the flickers of lightning proved. The smell of ozone wafted over the air towards him.

His first sighting of the slavers was a moment later, as a group of them charged the cliff path, diving at the rocks that provided cover. His first arrow whistled into a throat, dropping the man where he stood. The others got behind cover as Hawke's fireball exploded against the rocks.

"Well, I got their attention."

"Maybe they'll keep their heads down."

"I doubt it."

She was right. He saw movement, and loosed another arrow, catching the man in the shoulder. He staggered, howling in pain. He received an arrow in the chest for his efforts. Sebastian's hands were a blur as he loosed arrow after arrow, the missiles finding their mark in soft flesh and chinks between armor with heavy thuds of impact and cries of agony. His quiver was emptying fast, but Hawke was there, his spare quiver in her hand even as he drew the last arrow from the first. Her magic sizzled around him as she erected a glowing bubble of arcane energy to surround them, and all he knew was his sight, his breath and his mind narrowing into a singularity of _draw_-_breathe-loose_ that was the mark of a confident archer.

He didn't know how the guards had missed such a large gathering of men so close to Kirkwall. Their numbers were thinning, but so were his remaining arrows. Lightning sparked over his head and arced down behind a rock, sending men scrambling away from the cover, and he proceeded to pick off the stragglers. He conserved each shot, making sure it was a killing blow each time he drew the fletching to his ear.

A bellow drew his attention, and he swung to look down the path. His eyes widened. There at the base of the cliff stood the largest man he had ever seen, wielding a broadaxe that was as long as Sebastian was tall. The man himself looked to have been bred from the wilder stock that roamed the Anderfels, standing close to seven feet tall and corded with thick ropes of muscle. He was shirtless, painted with blue woad that crisscrossed his chest in an unfamiliar pattern. As he sighted his arrow on the man's chest, he caught the telltale shimmer of reflected sunlight around the giant.

"Mage!" he cried, causing Hawke to snap her hands forward, another fireball soaring down the slope to break against a magical barrier. The Anderfel giant gave a bark of raucous laughter and started up the hill towards them. Sebastian fired, but the arrow disintegrated to ash when it came in contact with the shield.

"Not just a mage, a magister, it looks like. I can't tell where he is."

Just then, he caught sight of Varric, the dwarf landing in a tumbling roll that carried him beyond the reach of a lightning bolt that cracked down where he had been standing moments before. Bianca's bayonet retracted, and he fired off several bolts before springing away again.

"There, Hawke, the magister is trying to corner Varric." He checked his spare quiver. Less than half a dozen arrows left. He bit off a curse before it got started, adding it to the list of things he would have to pay penance for later.

"He's still coming up the hill. Is there something you can do to stall him?" Sebastian's voice sounded urgent, even to his own ears. Hawke raised her arms, and the shimmering green glow of her paralyzation rune lit the path ahead.

"I can't guarantee that will work, but he doesn't know that," she said, bringing her index fingers on each hand together and sending a blast of cold that hit the giant in the chest. The shield dampened some of the ice, but not all, which seemed to surprise him. He shook the icicles out of his hair and pressed up the path toward them. Hawke kept him on his toes with spells, trying to slow him long enough until they could figure out how to take the shield down.

Sebastian caught the swirl of robes in his peripheral vision. The magister made his appearance, stalking Varric across the battlefield. Crossbow bolts bounced off his defenses, but Sebastian noticed the subtle hand movements the man was making. It was something the man had to concentrate on. It gave him just enough of an idea to go on. He darted to the side, nocking another arrow.

The man was concentrating on catching and killing Varric, which was hard to do considering the dwarf was rolling in and out of cover while peppering his assailant with bolts. It was understandable that he seemed surprised when an arrow sprouted from his chest. The shocked expression remained with him as he toppled to the ground and the shield around the Anderfel giant shattered.

It seemed to spur the big man on. He gave another bellow and broke into a run, seeming not to notice as Sebastian's arrows struck him in the chest multiple times. Varric was running after him, but crossbow bolts fired on the run weren't very accurate. They zipped into the ground around the giant's feet. He crossed the threshold of the paralyzation rune without missing a beat, the spell fizzling in whatever remained of the shield. He was almost on them.

Sebastian moved to intercept him. He did it without thinking, instinct causing him to drop his bow and go for a long knife he kept strapped to the quiver on his back. He was mediocre with a knife at best, but his bow was useless so close. He readied the blade, putting himself between the slaver and Hawke.

The first swing of the axe went high, Sebastian ducking in a smooth motion under the slaver's guard and bringing the dagger up and into the shirtless man's belly. The weapon drove deep, coating his hands in blood, but the big man kept coming, snarling as he used brute force to gain ground. Sebastian was forced back, his heels sliding backward through the loose dirt that coated the cliff, and in desperation he pulled the knife out and stabbed again, angling upward and trying to puncture a lung, something, anything that would stop the man. He shifted, making the giant move to the side, away from Hawke, who was standing in front of the boy. She was screaming at him to move so that she could cast, but he was already caught as the giant dropped his axe and grabbed him in a bear hug, lifting him and crushing him against the broad chest with monstrous strength.

He could feel the shafts of his arrows snapping against him as he was squeezed, or maybe the crunching sound he heard were his ribs. He couldn't form a coherent thought as the knife slipped from blood-slick fingers and his world began to go white at the edges. He brought his head forward and pulped the Anderfel's nose, desperate to get free, to _breathe_ –

The ratcheting thunk of Bianca sounded once more as Varric rounded the corner, peppering the man's back with a trio of crossbow bolts. The giant staggered close to the cliff's edge as the loss of blood took its toll. Sebastian was suddenly spinning out into the vertigo of open space as he and the dead man toppled over the cliff. He heard his name, but it was too late, the water was rushing up to meet him. His head bounced off an outcropping of rock, and he knew no more.

He slipped under the waves, oblivious to the slender form that dove off the cliff after him and to the dwarf that called Hawke's name as she plunged into the water after the heir to the Starkhaven throne.

* * *

He could taste salt. Soft lips were pressed against his mouth, and his hands twitched, trying to push them away.

He was aware, in a dim, half-conscious of someone pinching his nose shut, and then breath was forced into his lungs, the inflation painful as it expanded his lungs against his cracked ribs. He coughed, then retched a mixture of sea water and blood into the sand. His lung made a curious sucking sound in his chest.

He tried, but couldn't get any air. Suddenly, warmth flooded him as two sets of hands were laid on his chest, waves of healing magic mending the puncture in his lung. His nostrils were pinched closed again, and lips once again pressed to his, offering him breath.

He coughed up more sea water, turning his head to the side, finally able to breathe. He opened his eyes to see Hawke and Anders on their knees beside him in the sand, their brows furrowed as they channeled their spells into him to bring him back.

"The boy?" he rasped, his throat raw.

Hawke opened her eyes, sagging back on her heels. "Safe. Aveline had a patrol in the area. They're standing watch over him. Anders, can you see to him?"

Anders nodded. He looked down at Sebastian. "Don't play the hero. If your templars had their way, I might not be there to save you next time." He stood up and moved away before Sebastian could reply.

He closed his eyes. "I owe him my life."

"You do. Maybe you could lay off of him for a while in gratitude?"

"Perhaps."

"_Perhaps_ you could for me then, since I dragged your heavy arse to shore and helped him heal you, not to mention giving you mouth to mouth. Call it a personal favor."

His smile was a ghost of what it could be. "Aye, I could see about it. As a personal favor." Was he flirting with her? He chalked it up to madness brought on by almost drowning. His frazzled mind didn't even register that she had admitted to breathing life back into him.

"Excellent." She called over the guards who were standing watch, a makeshift litter between the two of them. "Oh, and for the record? Scale mail makes you sink like a stone. Try to remember to take it off the next time you try to impress me with a dive."

They lifted him onto the litter, and they made their slow return to Kirkwall, Hawke holding the boy, his arms clasped about her neck as she walked beside Sebastian. He slipped back into unconsciousness before they reached the gates of the city, and no one made mention of the fact that even with broken ribs, he smiled all the way back to the Chantry.

* * *

Two days later, he was still in bed, linen bandages around his ribs. He was cross because everyone was fussing over him without letting him get up. He had refused to let Hawke cluck over him like a hen. She tried to tend his wounds herself, but he had shrunk against the headboard of the bed in horror as she reached for the bed sheet, stammering something about impropriety. She left it to the lay healers in the Chantry, who were still unconvinced he was fit to walk around. So he was sulking as Varric leaned against the door to his dormitory.

"Choir Boy, you should really lighten up and let Hawke tend to those. Or send for a circle mage, at the least."

"I'm fine, Varric. Everyone else is pestering me about it, but I'm right as rain." He tried to hide his wince as he stretched. "I'm tired of vile tonics and unsolicited advice, they're not good company."

Varric laughed. "As you wish, Choir Boy. I've said my piece about your ribs. I just wanted to check how you were feeling, maybe play some cards?"

"So long as we don't gamble, I'm up for cards."

"Ugh, then it's not nearly as fun. Fine." Dragging the only chair in the room across to the bed, he sat and reached into his pouch for a battered deck of cards, dog-eared and well-worn from many games. He shuffled and dealt out a hand. He was quiet, which was unusual for Varric.

Sebastian raised his eyebrow as he regarded the dwarf. "Something on your mind, Varric?"

"Couple things."

"Well, it's not like I can go anywhere. Ask your questions."

"First of all, where'd you learn to play Diamondback?" Varric grinned, and Sebastian realized he had started sorting his hand according to the rules of the game and they were well into the first hand. He flushed and cleared his throat.

"I was…wilder when I was younger. Before I joined the Chantry. Let's leave it at that."

"I smell a story. That's not going to fly with me, you know that."

Sebastian sighed. "As the third son of the royal family in Starkhaven, I was a useless accessory. So I made a point of drinking and debauching across the entire Free Marches, determined to spend my brothers' inheritance before they got it. I think I made it halfway before my father caught up to me."

"Ouch," Varric said, shaking his head. "I take it that talk went well?"

"He dragged me out of whatever cramped and smelly tavern I was drowning myself in that week and boxed my ears solid." He licked his thumb and forefinger to get a better grip on the card he drew. "I never met a woman in the taverns and brothels who didn't love a game of cards. So I picked up on it quickly. Jack of Trump."

Varric grunted as Sebastian collected the cards laid down and set them aside. He dealt again. "So you were a wild child. Are you absolutely sure about this whole chastity thing?"

"Of course. Have I said or done anything that would lead you to believe otherwise?"

"Not really, but I've noticed you watching Hawke. It seems like you've got something on your mind." Varric held up his hands in a placating gesture as Sebastian scowled at him. "Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with looking at her. She's a beautiful woman. But aren't you supposed to be married to Andraste? At least symbolically?"

"Hawke is my friend. A better friend than I thought." He placed a hand on his ribs. "She and Anders saved my life. There is nothing unchaste about being an appreciative friend. Trick is mine again."

It was Varric's turn to scowl as Sebastian gathered the cards once more. "You're better at this than I thought. I'm glad you don't gamble anymore. You'd clean me out."

"You should have met me years earlier. We'd have been quite the pair of rakes."

"I think Hawke would have liked it more had she met you years earlier. Ah, trump." He collected the cards and set them aside. "She does like you, you know. She'd have to if she was going to dive off a cliff after your silly arse."

Sebastian struggled to come up with an answer to that. Varric took the trick again, tying the score.

"Perhaps in another life," he said, surprising himself. "She is…a remarkable woman. I would be remiss to say that I do not think about it sometimes."

Varric seemed surprised at his candor as well. He switched the subject to something more palatable as they continued to play. With nothing weighty like his chastity in the discussion to weigh on his thoughts, he trounced the dwarf at his own game. Varric grumbled again that he was glad Sebastian didn't gamble anymore.

Varric made his goodbyes soon after that, gathering up the cards and scooting the chair back to its place by the door.

"Varric?"

"Yeah?" The dwarf leaned against the doorframe, his thumbs in his belt.

"This was fun, thank you."

"No problem, Choir Boy. Do me a favor though?"

"What?"

"The next time you get it into your head to save the damsel in distress, make sure you don't get your arse kicked. I can't write a good story about you leaping to your lady-love's defense if your dumb arse gets dropped into the ocean and she has to give you mouth-to-mouth."

"You are incredibly lucky I can't reach my bow from here."

"Aren't I though?" Varric chuckled and gave a jaunty wave as he disappeared out of sight around the dormitory door, closing it behind him.


	3. Strength

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Three: Strength

* * *

The pews for vespers weren't full, but Sebastian took comfort in seeing the familiar faces of the faithful. His ribs were still not healed, and he winced as he shifted on the narrow wooden bench. He knew that he could have taken one of the noble boxes for their comfortable seats, as was his right; one of the boxes was even reserved for his family, but he had declined. He found it frivolous and a needless display of wealth.

All were equal in the Maker's sight, but the nobles thought it great fun to include the dance of piety to their machinations, competing to see and be seen in the Chantry. It granted them perceived status, just another way to outdo political opponents and Sebastian was hard pressed to not throw the lot of them out on their ears. Several times he had argued with the Grand Cleric about it, frustrated with the lot of them.

He did understand Elthina's position; the Chantry survived on donations alone, and the nobles were more than willing to pay for a false sense of superiority, but it struck him as dishonest. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, and it was a small comfort that the coin earned from the rental of the boxes went to feed the poor and clothe the needy. Better that than buying more finery for people who already had plenty to be sure, but it still rankled.

The whirling spin of his thoughts left him giddy, and he tried to ignore the burning ache in his ribs as the bells for service gave a muffled peal through the stone and mortar of the Chantry. Normally he would be up at the altar, preparing to lead the Chant, but he could not stand without leaning against a wall or chair, much less take a deep enough breath to propel his voice to the rafters of the Chantry in proper homage to the Maker and Andraste. He'd had to bite his tongue and let the chirurgeon prod him with her bony fingers without making a sound before she would even let him out of bed. He had earned his freedom through suffering, and he relished being able to attend services again like a normal human being instead of hearing the muffled singing through the dormitory wall.

He scorned the crutches that still leaned against the bed in the dormitory, too proud to use them. It was a failing, and he knew it, but he could not bear it; instead, he hobbled to the pews with one hand braced against the wall. His gait was that of an old man, but his head was held high, and he took his seat in one of the side pews with dignity intact. The healing draught he had taken before hobbling to the service still had not taken effect, however; his patience was being sorely tested as he waited for the pain to recede back to a dull throb.

Incense wafted through the air, tingeing the darkened cathedral with the scent of sandalwood and spices. Worshippers shuffled in and took their seats, scattering themselves among the pews in the front.

_So few worshippers tonight_, he thought with a sigh. _Is the city of Kirkwall truly this wicked?_

He was alone on his bench to the side, the entire congregation managing to fit in the center of the Chantry. The Grand Cleric took her place, her head bowed in reverence before lifting her arms to the Maker, her head thrown back as she took a deep breath to begin the Chant. He closed his eyes and listened to the High Cleric's rich voice as it swelled into the full melodic rhythm of Transfigurations.

"_These truths the Maker has revealed to me:  
As there is but one world,  
One life, one death, there is  
But one god, and He is our Maker.  
They are sinners, who have given their love  
To false gods._"

He let the lull of the Chant wash over him, the scent of incense and candlewax a welcome comfort. He didn't know if the poultice had finally kicked in or if it was just the ache from his knitting ribs, but even the simple act of sitting in worship was a trial to be endured with grace. He mouthed the words as his head lolled back to rest against the pew. Not quite asleep, but the dreamlike quality of the air around him was noticeable. He had never slept through vespers before, and he didn't intend to now. His eyes were closed in contemplation of the Maker's miracles, simple as that. His ribs had nothing to do with it.

"_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.  
Foul and corrupt are they  
Who have taken His gift  
And turned it against His children.  
They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones.  
They shall find no rest in this world  
Or beyond._"

The verse about magic brought Hawke to his mind, unbidden. It disturbed him that he did not consider her a true apostate, and he knew that he had a duty as a man of the cloth to encourage her into the Circle, but something caused him to keep his peace. Perhaps it was her iron self-control, her temper reigned in with politeness and charity. Perhaps it was simply that he knew her to be an honorable woman, and he would have said so to anyone, including several templars who had asked about his association with her. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. If she knew he ever had reason to step in on her behalf, she would probably be furious with him. She preferred to let her actions speak for her, and he respected her for that.

In his mind's eye he reached out and smoothed the hair back from her forehead, letting the short ruddy curls wind around his fingers. Green eyes slid closed at his touch, and she leaned into his hand, smiling at the contact. Her lips moved in soundless benediction as his fingers slid through her hair, the squared tips of his fingers tracing feather-light contact across her scalp. Grand Cleric Elthina's alto voice faded from his mind, the familiar verses tumbling from Hawke's lips as she spoke of the Maker and his love._  
_  
"_All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,  
From the lowest slaves  
To the highest kings.  
Those who bring harm  
Without provocation to the least of His children  
Are hated and accursed by the Maker._"

Her eyes opened, and they were standing on the cliffs of the Wounded Coast. The boy was in her arms, and she _burned,_searing all who would look upon her with righteous fury. White-hot fire licked from her body in painful radiance, and he fell to his knees, struck dumb at the blinding echo of power that pulsed in her veins. She was an extension of the Maker's will, a tool to shape the world. She would remake the world in her image, and surely that would tear asunder the gates of the Black City and etch new light onto its streets. It could do nothing less, this potential. Sinners would fall at her feet, and the penitent would be reborn at her touch, purified in her light.

"_Those who bear false witness  
And work to deceive others, know this:  
There is but one Truth.  
All things are known to our Maker  
And He shall judge their lies._"

She saw him for what he was: a mortal man with mortal desires, and it shamed him. His forehead touched the sandy shore in penitence. Strangely, she did not strike him down. He felt her fingers slide into his hair as she sank, boneless, to kneel beside him. Lightning arced from the sky, cutting through the darkened sky and limning the waves in eerie brilliance as she raised her face to the lashing storm that threatened to break over the Wounded Coast. Dark clouds frothed and churned overhead, and she lifted her voice to them, the words causing the growling thunder to quiet. Her hands rested at the nape of his neck, the warmth that radiated from them baptizing him anew.

"_All things in this world are finite.  
What one man gains, another has lost.  
Those who steal from their brothers and sisters  
Do harm to their livelihood and to their peace of mind.  
Our Maker sees this with a heavy heart._"

He tasted salt once again as she brought his lips to hers, giving him new life and purpose as surely as if she had laid it out before him on the altar. Her breath mingling with his, laced with the word of the Maker, was a consecration of the highest sort, one that soothed the anger in his soul like a cooling balm. He felt the bitterness in his heart recede, and he deepened the kiss, taking control from her and tunneling his hands into her ruddy hair, wanting to taste –

"Sleeping during the Chant, Sebastian? How _scandalous._" Warm, moist breath in his ear coupled with the voice of the woman he was thinking of caused him to yelp in startlement and twist away from her, slipping from the bench to land hard on his back. He nearly bit his tongue in half at the agony that shot through him, white spots dancing in his vision as Hawke knelt beside him. She looked mortified as her hands went to his ribs, causing him to hiss in pain and try feebly to wriggle away.

"Oh, Maker's mercy, Sebastian, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you!" She maneuvered her arm around him and helped him to sit up, his involuntary wince causing her eyes to narrow at him in assessment. "How bad is it still paining you?"

"I'll be fine in a moment," he ground out, a muscle in his jaw jittering as he fought to control the urge to shy away from her. That would only make her more suspicious. He knew her, and he knew that if he hinted at discomfort, she would scold him. She was a healer by choice, and it worried her when she saw someone injured.

"I can see you're not fine at all. Don't you lie to _me_, Sebastian Vael." He flinched, reminded of where they were. He sent a mental plea for understanding from Andraste. It was for the greater good, after all. "Come on. Let's get you to the dormitory. If you lay down, it might help whatever you strained to relax."

He suppressed his sigh and allowed her to help him limp from the main cathedral, his arm over her shoulder. Better to get this over with soon, he supposed. They reached the door of his room in short order, Hawke scolding him the entire way for not resting in bed where he would mend better. He bore it with the good grace of a man who deserved the chastisement, but stopped short just before they entered the room together.

She turned to him, her expression quizzical. "What's wrong? We're almost there."

"I should bid you good night, Hawke. I am overtired, and it's not seemly to have you in the room with me alone at this hour."

Her eyes narrowed as her hands went to her hips and a reddish brow rose upward. "It's barely past vespers. There's nothing improper about me caring for a patient in his rooms because he needs the bed rest anyway. Are you _that_ afraid I'll have my wicked, wanton way with you?"

Her tone was sarcastic, but he couldn't deny the images that flickered through his mind at that moment tested his resolve like nothing else since his dedication to the Chantry. He bit the inside of his cheek to maintain his focus and to remind his body that _he _was in charge, not the other way around, no matter how much it would beg to differ.

"I don't think – " he began, but she shushed him.

"You're swaying on your feet, Sebastian, and you're absolutely ashen. You're hurting worse than you should be, and you don't have to, you stubborn man. As a healer, I'm not asking anymore. I'm _telling_ you, come inside and sit on the bed so I can have a look at you."

He sighed and relented, allowing himself to be led into the room. Hawke lit his candle with the flick of a wrist, helping Sebastian to the narrow bed where he slept. He dropped onto the bed with a grunt, and Hawke bustled about the room, gathering clean bandages from the chest in the corner. She gestured for him to remove his shirt, and scowled at him when he hesitated.

"Your bare chest isn't going to send me into a swoon, Sebastian. I've seen worse, much worse, when helping at Anders's clinic. I can't judge how the bones are mending unless I touch them. Come on, off with the shirt."

He flushed, his arms prickling with goosebumps from the cold in the room as he did as she asked, turning his head to avoid meeting her gaze. He heard the intake of breath as she saw the bruising that covered his torso, mottling it with a myriad of sickly colors that ran from beneath his armpits to where his trousers settled on his hips. She let a hiss out through her teeth as she undid the wrappings that blocked most of his chest from her view and saw that the bruises were even worse there, if that was possible.

"You absolutely stubborn man. How long has it been this – this bad?" She stopped just short of wagging a finger in his face as she scolded him. "You should have let me heal you when I asked you to, or sent for a circle mage. Maferath's blighted bollocks! You could be sick with the blood poison, or something worse! The chirurgeon didn't say anything to me about this when I asked. Incompetence, the lot of them!"

He flinched at the epithet, knowing she was worried about him and wasn't really minding her tongue. He swallowed, finally meeting her gaze. "I didn't think it was that bad."

"Of course you didn't. Trust the man who was whining about not being let up the day after he got back to Kirkwall to know what's best about his health, not his friend who happens to know quite a bit about healing." She was grumbling, her fingers impossibly light on his sides and chest as she probed for the depth of the damage.

"You've not got the poison, but you are running a fever. I can't do anything about that, but I can ease a lot of this. Lay back and move your arms out of the way…no, put them behind your head. I need to get at your ribs." Hawke was all business, kneeling to pull his boots off before she pushed his shoulder to get him to lie down. He complied, his movements wooden and stiff.

As she arranged his hands behind his head, he chanced a look at her throat, just a glimpse at the line of it as it rose from the neck of her robes. He could breathe her in, honeysuckle mixed with the incense of the nave, the scent sending a jolt of arousal through him. He looked away just as she turned back to his chest, swallowing hard as he prayed to Andraste for strength. The bed creaked as she sat down, the mattress compressing slightly with her weight as she began her examination in earnest, her hands glowing with a healthy green light as she stroked them across his chest.

His breathing hitched, and he closed his eyes tight. He was praying hard now, hoping that she didn't notice quite how fast he was breathing, or if she did that she would attribute it to the fact that he was in pain. Warmth suffused him as she probed gently with her fingertips. The pain gradually began to fade, replaced with the feeling of contentment, and he let out a shaky breath. He could get through this. He was stronger than most gave him credit for. He could _do_ this.

His hands fisted in the hair at the back of his head as her hands swept across the lines of his stomach, his arm muscles flexing in a desperate attempt to keep from grabbing her about the waist and tugging her under him. He jaw twitched as he tugged hard, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes so that he could distract himself from the friction of her fingertips. He had been with women before. How in the name of all that was holy did this one get hands that were that soft? Was it simply because he couldn't remember?

_You're testing my resolve, aren't you, Andraste? I left the priesthood once, because I wasn't ready, and now you are tempting me with earthly delights to test my commitment. _He swallowed again and reminded himself that Hawke was his friend, and deserved his respect, no matter his personal demons.

He watched her face as she worked, the tiny worry line that etched itself between her brows easing as his bruising gradually faded. She passed her hands one last time over his chest and then sat back.

"See? All taken care of, and your vows are intact."

_If only barely_, he amended in his head.

She placed the inside of her wrist to his forehead to check on his temperature while the thought of tugging her hand down to place a burning kiss on that wrist flashed through his mind.

_As Andraste before me, I will be strong in my love for you, O Maker. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked and make me to rest in the warmest places._

He let out a long breath, no more pain forcing him to breathe in shallow sips. He opened his eyes as she removed her wrist from his forehead and sat up, placing his back against the headboard.

"Hawke," he said, and the husky tone of his voice made her start, looking at him as though he'd thrown cold water on her. He cleared his throat and tried again, tugging the blankets up over his waist and pillowing his arms on his knees as an extra buffer between them. "Hawke. Thank you, truly."

"Maybe you can thank me by not refusing healing next time, and by resting until your fever breaks. It's mild, but it could have been much worse."

"Aye, I'm sorry to cause you worry."

"Just don't do it again, serrah, or I'll give you a pinch you'll never forget." She flashed a grin at him that he couldn't help but return. She rose off the bed, dusting her hands and gathering the old bandages for the lay healers to wash and then boil for reuse. Satisfied with her cleanup, she turned to him to say something, then smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand.

"I'm such a scattershell, I nearly forgot why I came by. I've finished collecting the funds I need to help Varric with his Deep Roads expedition. His brother Bartrand is making the final arrangements now, and we leave in a few days. I wanted to see if you would go, but with you in this condition I can't ask that of you."

"I would not be able to go, not in good conscience," he said. "I've duties here that I cannot neglect for that long, as well as an audience with the Viscount for aid to recover my family's properties and quell the unrest in Starkhaven."

"Of course, Sebastian. I just wanted to offer you the choice, since you are my friend. Will you at least come to see us off?"

"Yes, I can do that. I'll also pray to the Maker for your safe return and luck in your endeavor."

She smiled. "I'd like that, thank you."

Her face was shadowed as she moved out of the candle's feeble light. She paused at the door, the torchlight in the hall casting her silhouette in sharp relief. "Good night."

"Good night, Hawke."

The candle guttered low as he bent his head in prayer, and it was a long time before he slept.


	4. Succor

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Four: Succor

* * *

Sebastian never walked in Darktown without his armor on. It was caution on his part, and prudence won out over everything else when it came to Darktown. The bandit groups did tend to leave Hawke's group alone if Varric put the pressure on, but that was no guarantee. His armor made him feel much better about the winding tunnels that yawned every which way, leading to the Undercity proper. He adjusted the strap of the satchel he carried, making sure it was still secure next to his side as he made his way to his destination.

Fereldan refugees slept in corridors, more hungry faces than ever, even with the Blight over and ships coming in daily to return them to their homes. Hollow eyes greeted him from almost every shadow, and his soul flinched every time he saw a child with that grown-up look of despair and listlessness. He pressed coins in the hands of mothers until his pouch was empty; he was mobbed by little hands and fingers while doling out sweets that he had bought before descending into the underbelly of Kirkwall. He cursed the small stipend that the Chantry provided him, wishing it were larger when the money ran out before he could help them all. You couldn't eat blessings from the Maker.

Smaller children still ran and played as best they could in the damp tunnels, weaving around his legs as he walked. Older children, the ones who understood their situation, sat or slouched in doorways with hard eyes, on the threshold of adolescence and life in the Carta or the Coterie just to survive. They sneered or made catcalls at him as he passed, and he ignored them as best he could, although he kept alert. Most wouldn't make a move on an armored man, but it wasn't unheard of for someone to get mugged by kids trying to earn a place in the street gangs.

Anders's clinic stood off the main track, out of easy notice of templars and the rare Chantry missionary who was brave enough to venture into the dark. The lanterns were lit, shining even during the day when the apostate was in; the rumor was he did it by will alone. The eerie bluish flame drew Sebastian to the rickety wooden double doors, and he wondered how Anders was going to take the intrusion. He had come this far, however, and he was determined to see it through.

The clinic was not as busy as usual, a rarity in itself. Sickness was rampant in Darktown, the chokedamp spreading moldering fingers throughout the lungs of the refugees. Sebastian gave a mental shake of his head. To flee the Blight, to survive the darkspawn, only to die coughing blood was a terrible thing to behold. Only one patient sat on a cot, a little boy who had sliced his hand open on one of the pipes that ran along the walls. He wriggled as Anders cleaned the cut, the apostate being as gentle as he could as he wiped down the gash. His hands glowed green briefly and the cut closed, the boy hopping down and running off after hugging Anders's leg. Sebastian caught the hint of a smile before the mage noticed he was there and his face closed up like a window slamming shut.

"Why are you here?" Anders radiated mistrust and tension throughout his lanky form. Amber eyes tried to watch him and check the doors for templars all at once. "Come to finally turn me in?"

"No." Sebastian knew he had to tread with care. Anders had no patience for anyone who wasted his time, especially someone he disliked already. "I've come to offer a truce."

"I wasn't aware we were at war." Anders said, his voice frosty.

"Anders, you and I have been sniping at each other since day one. Please, don't make this any harder than it already is." He slid the leather strap of his satchel over his head and placed it on the cot next to him. Flipping open the satchel's closure, he backed away so that Anders could inspect the contents at his leisure. It felt a little like baiting a wild animal.

Anders scowled, but moved over to the cot to look in the bag. His eyes widened as he pulled out several potion bottles, all marked in Sebastian's blocky, neat handwriting.

"You brought me supplies," he said, sounding as if he didn't quite believe it. He dug through the bag, setting out the potions and pulling out the first aid materials that lined the bottom. A spindle of catgut, as big around as his fist, was joined by clean linen bandages, ointments, and unguents that were all needed down here and yet in short supply. Anders repacked everything, a frown playing across his features.

"Why?" He didn't quite look at Sebastian.

"Because you mended a gaping hole in my lung that I'm fairly sure you could care less about under normal circumstances. I owe you. I'm not here to antagonize you, Anders."

The mage snorted. "And yet you still manage to do a fabulous job."

Sebastian ignored the jab, trying to do as Hawke asked and make peace. "I know you're going with Hawke. The Deep Roads is no trip to take lightly. What about the refugees down here? I know how hard you work to keep this clinic open. I want to help."

He spread his hands to encompass the clinic. "Let me watch the clinic for you since I can't abandon my duties here. I know a little bit about stitching up wounds, and I know of a lay healer who would be discreet enough to not say anything about you or…your passenger."

Anders was already shaking his head. "Look, I don't know what you're trying to pull, but I wasn't born yesterday. I let one of the lay healers in here, the next time I dare to show my face in here I'm dragged out in pieces."

"Then send them to the Chantry. Tell them to ask for me, and I will provide what aid I can."

"Why are you so eager to help me all of a sudden?" Anders was still scowling. The man was paranoid, although Sebastian supposed he had very good reason. The feasibility of him not being noticed as he brought a Chantry healer was too slim to risk, and Ferelden refugees still distrusted Kirkwall's clergy. Still, the peace offering was on the table, and he felt the better for it.

"You do good things down here, despite what you are. I want to help." He clapped a hand over his mouth. He hadn't. Oh sweet _Andraste_, he was an idiot. His eyes widened, and he tried to speak, but Anders took a step forward, and he shrank back.

Anders seemed to swell with anger, his teeth bared as he turned.

"_Despite what I am?_ You're not only an arrogant prig, you're mad to think that anything you could do would change my opinion of you after that." He picked up his staff, his knuckles white on the wood. "Get out of my clinic."

"Anders – Maker, I'm sorry, I didn't mean – " He tried to backpedal, but the visible crackling of magic as the spirit that inhabited the apostate made itself visible cut him off. Anders's eyes glowed with a fierce blue light, cracks appearing all over his skin as he advanced on Sebastian in an unholy rage. Dust was shaken from the ceiling and the mage's hands erupted in blue flame.

"_**GET OUT!**__" _Anders roared, his voice amplified by Justice's fury.

Sebastian fled.

* * *

The first patient appeared two days after Hawke and the others left for the Deep Roads. The woman was carrying a babe in her arms, the child sick with colic. As he turned from his work to greet her, her eyes dropped to his groin. Blushing with embarrassment, he asked her if he could help her.

"The healer sent me, said I was to look for the 'sanctimonious prig who wears Andraste as a codpiece.' "

He had to admit, he'd deserved that.

* * *

Sebastian slumped in the gardens outside the Chantry. His life had been hectic the last month. Refugees appeared at all hours of the day and night, each with their own ailments that seemed to come from living in squalor. The Chantry had responded as he knew it would, setting up a makeshift hospice in the unused dormitories in the east wing. He had been worked to the bone, changing linens and bedpans, comforting the sick with poultices and bathing their foreheads while the lay healers plied their trade. He was a strong, able bodied man, and was asked most often to help lift and turn patients.

He was worn to the bone. He found a shred of time to himself that wasn't occupied by eating or catching a few hours of rest at last, and he settled in the gardens to relax a moment and quiet his mind. As they often did, his thoughts turned to the Deep Roads expedition. He wondered how they fared, and said a brief prayer for Hawke and her friends. Hawke had taken Anders and her brother with her, promising her mother that Carver was in no danger. He hoped that Varric and his brother had found what they were looking for, and that was why they hadn't come back yet.

He tried to ignore the thought in the back of his head that wondered in the tiniest voice if she were dead, and if it was his fault for not going. He had thrown himself into helping the poor of Darktown to silence that voice, and for the most part, it had worked. Now that it was acting up again, he resolved to see if anyone needed anything.

He stood, rolling his shoulders and trying to work the ache out of the small of his back. He was disheveled, his face stubbly and unshaven, his shirt untucked and sweat-stained. He really didn't care, and he doubted that anyone else did when he was elbow deep in blood and other fluids. He began to understand a little more about how and why Anders operated the way he did. Maybe when they got back he'd tell him so.

If Justice didn't try to set him on fire first.

He pressed his knuckles to the small of his back and turned to go back into the Chantry. He ached all over, but it was a good, honest ache, and he didn't complain. It kept him occupied, because he feared that if he was left to his own devices he'd be digging his way into the Deep Roads from the Undercity. If he didn't wear himself out every day like this, he'd lay awake, his thoughts chasing themselves like a mabari after its stubby tail.

His eyes took their time adjusting to the dimness of the cathedral. Noontide around Hightown left the Chantry empty and quiet, the darkness of the nave cool after the heat of the gardens. He paused to pay his respects to the statue of Andraste that stood in the main entrance to the cathedral, touching his brow in reverence before preparing to pass through to the hospice.

Had he not heard the muffled sob, he would have never seen her. He slowed, his head turning to the pews in the back of the cathedral. He sought out the source of the sound, afraid to call out in case he startled whoever was there. A huddled figure drew his attention, and he changed his course to offer help if it was needed.

The tousled red bob would have given her away anywhere, but the sight of her sitting with her head bowed, biting her thumbnail as her shoulders shook made him uncertain. He had never known her to cry; then again, he'd never known her to spend any amount of time in the Chantry either. He dithered there, not wanting to make a fool of himself if it turned out to not be her and his imagination was playing a cruel trick on him. Hope waged war with good sense, and hope won out. He approached her, stopping just short of the pew.

"Hawke? Maker's breath, is it really you?"

When she looked up at him, he knew. She was hurting, and the only thing he could do, he did. He knelt in front of her, face level with hers, and cupped her face with his hands. Thumbs wiped away the tracks of tears, and she gave a hiccupping sob that tore into his heart. She leaned against his palm, weeping openly.

He couldn't bear it. Andraste preached to give succor to the needy; _she_ needed him. Surely he would be forgiven this.

"Shh…shh, sweetling. It's all right now. Don't cry, please," he whispered, not even registering the words that spilled from him. It only seemed to make her cry harder, the floodgates opening after a few kind words.

He pulled her off the pew, sitting on the cold stone floor and tucking her into his lap. Her arms went around his neck and she clung to him, a storm of tears that shook her body. He soothed and rocked her, murmuring nonsense words and placing soft kisses along the part in her hair as his hands ran up and down her back. How he had missed that scent, honeysuckle that curled from her like it was an extension of her. He allowed himself to breathe deep, feeling whole again.

He could feel the wracking sobs slow, dwindling into hiccups and sniffles. She sagged against him, her fingers drawing random patterns on the back of his neck. He tilted her chin up, brushing the tangled locks of hair out of her eyes. Green eyes threatened to swallow him up, drown him. He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead and tucked her head against his neck, breathing deep and steady to soothe her.

It was a long moment before she spoke. "Did I ever tell you about my sister?"

He racked his brain, trying to think. He knew Carver, in that he knew _of_ Carver. All he knew was a sullen young man that scowled at Hawke from a corner and seemed very unhappy with his lot in life. He had never known she had a sister.

It seemed she didn't need an answer. She posed another question instead. "Will you hear my confession?"

For the briefest of moments, he froze, his noble-born mind thinking that she wanted to confess her affection for him, and then he started breathing again when he realized she wanted absolution.

"Of course." He had no idea what sin she thought she had committed, but he would listen.

Her fingers toyed with the fabric of his shirt. It was something he never realized he missed, but watching her fingers, he felt a pang of regret for something he couldn't have, the first since he had chosen this life.

"Carver and Bethany were twins. So alike they could complete each other's sentences when they were little. They only started to grow apart when Bethany developed her…talent, like mine. I think Carver started hating me then. We had something that we could share, just us, that he would never understand, and it meant another thing that would keep him from Father, and from Beth." She seemed lost in thought, her mind probing old wounds. "Mama doted on Carver because of it, but I don't think it was the same."

He nodded against her hair, letting her continue at her own pace.

"When we fled Lothering, I was the head of the house. Father had died three years before that, so it was up to me to get us out. Mama didn't want to leave, even when Carver came back from Ostagar and insisted that we should leave. We should have left sooner. Maybe if I had believed him, things would have been different."

"Different?"

"We almost didn't make it to Gwaren. We had help, but not before Bethany…died. I killed her."

He was silent. He knew that there was more to this, and she had to get it out of her system.

"She was helping Mama, keeping her safe. When the ogre charged, she pushed her out of the way, and…" Her voice broke. "When it was over, Mama asked me why I couldn't protect her. I still don't know."

He combed her hair with his fingers, trying to soothe her. "You couldn't have known what was going to happen. Your mother blamed you and expected you to be the responsible one?" He tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice, but failed.

"Mama," she said, sounding as if it were mutiny to even say the words, "Mama was a noble. All she knew was her life here in Kirkwall. Even after twenty years of living on her own with a family to provide for, she could barely function. Father did all the housework, the cooking, and he made the decisions for the family. He doted on Mama, and so she never learned how to do anything for herself. She was so lost when he died. It seemed natural to take over. She always said I took after him more than her."

He sighed, leaning back. She followed along, and he realized too late that she fit along his chest like she belonged there. He closed his eyes, determined to do his duty and hear her confession. Then, he would see to his own soul.

"Carver blamed me, too. He changed after Bethany died. It was like he started fights just to fight with someone, to feel something. When the Deep Roads expedition left, he insisted that he go along. Mama wanted to keep him at home. She said she felt like something would go wrong."

She sighed. "She was right. He was poisoned by the taint, down in the thaig. He would have died if Anders hadn't saved him. There were passing Grey Wardens escorting one of their number through our part of the roads, and…they took him. We don't even know if he'll live. Anders said there was a slim chance, and their leader said it might not work, but I took it. Maker help me, but I took it. I didn't want my little brother to die too."

She drew another shuddering breath.

"You did what you felt was necessary, Hawke. You said yourself that the Wardens think he has a chance of surviving."

"Mama didn't take it well. It was like losing Bethany all over again."

He tightened his hold on her, but she continued in a whisper. "What kind of healer am I if I can't even save my own family?"

She shifted a little in his lap when he didn't speak at once. He placed a hand on her back in reassurance, but she tilted her head back to look at him. "What kind of penance should someone like me have to pay?"

He shook his head, smiling. "Sleep, I think. And a hot meal."

"That doesn't sound like much of a punishment."

Sebastian compressed his lips to bite back the vitriol he wanted to spew at her mother. "Hawke, that wasn't your fault. Carver going to the thaig was his decision. He's of age to be a man on his own. I was well on my way to striking out on my own at his age. Bethany's death was not your fault either, no matter what your mother believes. To be so young, and yet responsible for your siblings and your mother is not fair to you. It's not fair of your mother to place that on your shoulders. There is no penance required for doing the best you can do and placing things in the Maker's hands."

"Why are you so damned reasonable?"

"Because it's easier than condemning everyone. Eventually you end up alone."

"You make a lot of sense sometimes."

"It's another of the gifts the Maker blessed me with."

She gave a raspy chuckle, one that devolved into a hiccup. She seemed much calmer now, her breathing evening out until he thought she'd fallen asleep. The fact that she refused to stir when he moved confirmed his suspicions. He would have been content to sit there with her, were it not for the stone of the floor digging into his hip. When he shifted in discomfort, she stirred, murmuring something against his neck.

"Hawke."

"Mnh?"

"I need to get up off the floor. Come on, stand up. We'll find you a more comfortable place to fall asleep."

"Hmmkay." She yawned and staggered to her feet. She sagged against him as he got up, but he caught her. Sebastian considered what he was going to do. In the end, he decided he couldn't walk her home. She was in no condition to walk, and he couldn't imagine speaking to her mother in a civilized tone if she could. He scooped her up, cradling her to his chest, and made his way to the solitary dormitory where he slept.

He laid her upon the narrow bed and turned to go when she reached out and caught his fingers in her own. He stopped, looking down at her as she regarded him solemnly through a haze of sleep and grief.

"Why do you always call me Hawke?"

He paused and thought about it. "Everyone does."

"I have a first name, you know."

He smiled. "No, I didn't. I just assumed you were one of those heroes in Varric's stories, the ones with one name who completed impossible feats of daring."

"Stop it. 's not funny." She squeezed his fingers, searching his face. "Could you use it, please?"

"Celeste," he said, trying it out. It scared him how well it rolled off his tongue. "It suits you."

" 'course it does. 's my name." Her eyes were drifting closed again, and before he could stop himself, he brushed the hair from her forehead and kissed the worry line between her brows, feeling it smooth under his lips. She smiled and turned on her side, drawing her legs up to her chest.

Sebastian let out a shuddering breath. He needed a bath, he realized, looking down at himself. And a shave. And time to think. A _lot_ of time.

He wondered if it was wrong to wish that his bed would smell like her when he got back.


	5. Sin

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Five: Sin

* * *

He sank into the hot water of the bath with a sigh. He leaned against the side of the copper tub, soaking in the warmth, his tired muscles grateful for the rest. He luxuriated in the heat, little ripples of water eddying about his chest as his fingertips traced the water in thought. Varric had been kind enough to let him use his room instead of having to pay for his own. The Hanged Man was not the cleanest inn in Kirkwall, but it _did_ have hot water, and that was all that really mattered at the moment.

He needed time to think, and this was the best place for that. At first, all he could do was stretch to remove the stiffness from his limbs. His eyebrows pinched together and he took a deep breath, trying to recover a little of his thought processes. His soul felt raw, seared to the core.

He tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. When no real solution to his dilemma appeared through divine providence, he sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face in irritation. He knew what he was feeling. He also knew that he had no right. She was his friend, and she deserved better than what he was thinking. He had already made his vows to the Chantry, and even though he had broken them to see to his family's vengeance, this was something that could damn him far quicker than seeking judgment for the guilty.

_The Maker provides for those who seek His grace in all they do. I will just have to place this in His hands and try to live the way He wills._ It was an imperfect solution, but Sebastian knew that sometimes putting your trust in the Maker meant giving Him the benefit of the doubt. It would all work out the way He willed it to. It made him feel a little better.

He ducked his head underwater and resurfaced, using his cake of simple brown soap to scrub his hair. His fingers dug into his scalp, working up a lather, and then dunked himself again. He came back up for air a moment later, water dripping into his eyes as he slicked his now-clean hair back from his face. He cleared his vision and nearly jumped out of his skin.

Isabela was sitting on a chair next to the tub, her swarthy face cracking into a grin that soon devolved into throaty laughter as he sought to cover himself. She crossed her legs, tipping the chair back onto its back legs as she appraised him.

He settled for holding the soft cleaning cloth over his lap and sinking father into the soapy water. He glared at her, which seemed to only amuse her more. She was good, at least. He hadn't heard her enter Varric's room.

_You were distracted. _He waved the thought away. "Isabela. What do you want?"

"Varric _did_ say he had a prince in his bathtub. He was obviously not covered in soap, so the only other option that came to mind was you. I figured you might want help scrubbing your back. Or other parts." She gave him an arch look, and he sank lower into the tub, the water up to his chin.

"No, I think I can clean up by myself. You saw yourself in, so you can see yourself out as well. Good day, Isabela." As far as he was concerned, this conversation was over.

Isabela was unconvinced. "Why? I've got the best seat in the house. Not every girl has the opportunity to say she saw the Prince of Starkhaven completely, well, starkers."

"_Isabela_."

"To get me out of here, you'd have to get out, which makes it a win-win situation for me."

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "What do you _want_, Isabela?"

"What's going on with you and Hawke?"

His eyes snapped open. So it appeared that everyone could see right through him. He hated being obvious about things he'd rather keep quiet.

"You pinned me in the bathtub to ask about Hawke?" He was incredulous. "Really, this could have waited."

"Not really. You'd avoid me if you knew what I wanted, and I've seen you move. It would be a pain in the arse to actually track you down if you wanted to hide." The chair dropped back onto all four legs with a solid thump and she leaned forward. Sebastian turned his head away from her display of cleavage, which only seemed to amuse her. "So, spill."

"There's nothing to spill. She's a dear friend, and she's saved my life on a number of occasions. You could say the same, you know. Is there anything…going on between you two?"

"Well, not for lack of trying," Isabela muttered. Sebastian gaped at her. "What? I know what I like."

He coughed. "Um, right. As I was saying, there's nothing there. She is my friend, and I am a chaste man. Friendship is a valuable and splendid thing in the eyes of the Maker."

"Bullshit. The glances you keep sneaking her when you think no one's watching? Those are the last thoughts a chaste man should be having." He flinched, because he knew it to be true.

"Isabela, there's really nothing going on. No matter what you may think of me, I cannot break my vows."

"You're as thick as she is," the Rivaini woman grumped. "You know she's never even been kissed? Her mother sheltered her like a lay sister when she was younger."

His eyebrow rose. "What does that have to do with me?"

"She likes you, dolt. She came to me and asked what she should do about it, before she left for the Deep Roads. Rather sweet, really. She couldn't stop talking in euphemisms. I told her to tell you, but it's obvious she hasn't. I haven't seen her since she got back, though."

"I…see." Some things started to click for him. He remembered her voice, low in his ear as she had whispered to him in the Chantry. He closed his eyes, thankful that he had at least the towel to cover himself with.

She would definitely want to talk about what happened, he already knew this, but this…this added a whole new complication.

"Apparently you _don't_ see. A woman wants to ride you like a bronto, and all you can say is 'I see' like you're choosing what you'll have for tea." Isabela huffed air through her nose, a very unladylike noise.

"That's crude, Isabela." Sebastian shook his head. "What would you have me do? My vows – "

"Vows?" Now it was Isabela's turn to look incredulous. "You're thinking of your _vows_? Where's your sense of romance? Go in there with your shirt open to show her that decidedly yummy chest of yours, sweep her off her feet and smolder at her. She'll be putty in your hands."

Sebastian sputtered.

"Smolder? _Smolder?_ I don't even know how to smolder." He stopped and took a deep breath, realizing he had not touched on the appropriate point. "Besides, I cannot abandon my vows. I swore an oath, and I do not break my promises."

Isabela folded her arms, looking cross. "Obviously Varric was lying when he told us about your wild past. I'll have to scalp him at Wicked Grace to teach him a lesson."

"Then do that, and let me finish my bath in peace," he growled.

"Fine. But a sail lashed tight breaks in a high wind." She gave him an assessing look as she rose from her chair. "And from the looks of it, you're lashed as tightly as you'll go without losing your mast."

She moved beyond his sight for a moment, behind a privacy screen, before he saw the door open. He heard the thump of her boots pause. "And you _can_ smolder. When she bites her lower lip, you know, when she's thinking? I would swear you were trying to set your clothes on fire to cool down."

He threw the bar of soap at the closing door and sank into the water up to his eyebrows.

* * *

He felt a little more human after his bath. Wicking away the last of his shaving soap with his towel and inspecting his face in the mirror made it even truer. He had never liked himself with a beard. It always looked odd on him, like he could never get one right. He pulled on his shirt and packed his things, stopping by Varric's table to thank him. Varric waved him away, glaring at the cards in his hand. Isabela tipped him a wink and raised her glass to him as he passed.

The walk back to the Chantry in Hightown was a short one, but Sebastian took his time with it. He mulled over what he would say when he got back, and discarded every idea as soon as he thought of it. Nothing he could think of would sound right, and make her understand. He slowed to a stop just outside the edge of the Chantry's grounds, hands fisted at his sides.

He had no idea what he was going to do. After holding her while she sobbed like a child, he couldn't stand to watch her break down again. He couldn't do that to her. But this…this had become more complicated than he intended. It was one thing for him to feel regret whenever he looked at her, but for her to…

He couldn't even complete the thought. His fist met the stone of the wall around the grounds, hard enough to split a knuckle. It didn't make his decision any clearer, and the one place where he felt like he could find answers was where the problem lay.

He sucked on his wounded knuckle in absent thought, leaning against the sun-warmed stone. He had to do it, and he had to do it in a way that wouldn't make her hate him. He frowned, the coppery tang of his own blood making him grimace. There wasn't anything for it. He straightened his shoulders and made his way into the grounds, intent on breaking her heart for the second time today.

* * *

She was still asleep when he poked his head around the door, but he stepped in and shut it anyway, regardless of rules of propriety. They needed to talk, and it needed to be in private. Then, when he was a smoldering (_damn Isabela_) pile of ash on the floor, he wouldn't need to worry about propriety.

She was curled on her side, his pillow tucked under her arm instead of under her head. She looked to have been hugging it in her sleep. He suppressed a smile and knelt before the bed.

"Hawke?" He touched her arm. She stirred, but didn't wake. "Celeste."

He hated how right that sounded.

"Celeste. Wake up." He took her hand in his, squeezing the slim fingers with gentle pressure.

Green eyes cracked into slits, consciousness coming slowly. "Mnh…Carver?"

Oh, Maker, this was not going to be easy. "No, Celeste. It's Sebastian."

She finally seemed to rouse somewhat. "Sebastian?" She yawned, covering her mouth with her palm. "I didn't sleep here all night, did I?"

"No, it's not yet time for vespers. You are yet early to have slept the night away."

She noticed how serious he sounded. She came awake all the way and sat up, curling her legs underneath her.

"Is something wrong? Your hand, it's bleeding…" Green light limned her fingertips as she stroked her hand over his split knuckle to close the cut.

"Nothing's wrong, per se, but we need to talk." He took his hand back, placing both palms on his knees. "I'm afraid you might have gotten…the wrong idea."

"What do you mean?" She cocked her head to the side, biting her lower lip. He dragged his eyes away, recalling what Isabela had said. "Did I say something to upset you? I'm not as good an Andrastian as Mama, but I do try-"

"No, nothing like that." Maker, this _was_ hard. He took a steadying breath. "I think you might have gotten the wrong idea about _me_."

"Such as?" She was definitely confused now, he could see. "Sebastian, you're not making any kind of sense."

He buried his face in his hands. "I talked to Isabela, and she said that you approached her, and asked…about me."

"Oh." It was a tiny noise, and he wasn't sure if he had heard her correctly. He looked up. She had her face pressed into the pillow, and he could see the tips of her ears turning red in embarrassment.

"Oh," she said again, and this time her fingers gripped the pillow, twisting this way and that with distress. Her voice was muffled, but he could hear her well enough. "I am going to light her on _fire_."

He burst into laughter. He couldn't help it; she had said it with such _conviction_. Sagging back on his heels, he wiped tears from his eyes. She looked up and mock-glared at him for a moment, then joined in, burying her face back into his pillow. When they could look at each other without giggling, Hawke took a deep breath and let it out, a small remnant of a snicker escaping before she clamped down on it.

"Did Isabella mention _when_ I asked her?" she asked, her face mottled red with both laughter and shame.

"Only that you asked before the Deep Roads," he admitted.

"Yes, she _would_ be appropriately vague. I asked her about you after you thanked me for avenging your parents. This was before I ever knew you as a person. I _wanted_ to get to know you, yes. But I had no idea about your vows before then."

She leaned back against the headboard and smiled at him. "You take your duties very seriously, whether it's to Starkhaven or to the Chantry. You've been a steadfast companion, never complaining, even when we walk in questionable company. How could I ask you for something you can't give? I'm sure I can't compare to the Maker, and I wouldn't even want to begin to try."

He was shocked. He had gone in expecting to have to let her down, and in the end, he was the one having it explained to him. He felt kind of cheated.

"You're not upset?" he asked, his eyes searching her face. Green eyes snapped in mirth as she took in his desperate expression.

"Not even a little bit, Sebastian. I would sooner chew off my own arm than help a friend break a promise he made. I am, however, still going to set Isabela on fire for stirring this coal." She rolled her shoulders and scooted to the edge of the bed, past where he was kneeling.

He sighed. "You know, I told Varric that in another life, we might have had something."

She paused, looking thoughtful. "Then maybe, in another life, I would have been very happy. But if wishes were bread, even the poor would have full bellies. Thank you for trying to spare my feelings, Sebastian, it was very sweet."

He stood, offering her his arm. "Shall I walk you home?"

It seemed like the only thing to do, since she had taken it with such grace. She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow with a smile.

"I'd like that."

* * *

_She rose above him in the darkness, the moonlight from the window dappling her body with shadows that caressed her form even as he did. Soft sighs fell from her lips as he reached up, cupping a breast in his palm as he ran his thumbs along the sensitive skin there. His lips roamed the tender flesh of her stomach, tasting the salt of their exertions. Her hips rolled downward, even as he bucked upward, causing her to gasp._

_He rose up, rolling them over on the narrow bed, and pinned her beneath him as he balanced on his forearms above her. His name was a benediction, a whispered prayer in the shadows. His kisses left her twisting and gasping against him, and he soothed her with sweet words and touches. She fisted her hands in his tunic, drawing him forward for a kiss that left him shaking. He shucked his shirt; her fingers splayed across his chest in reverence. His kisses moved lower, towards the heat of her, and she gave a small whine of need._

_He smiled. He wasn't going to rush this, no matter how she felt about it. He sat back on his heels, drawing one of her legs with him. He kissed the inside of her knee, his tongue laving the sensitive spot there, before he trailed lips and teasing tongue down her thigh to her center. She arched against him, sobbing as he paid homage to her. Her nails grazed his scalp, and her back arched like a bow as he strung her out with a teasing lick._

_She cried his name, begged for him to love her, and he moved back up her body, bracing himself there as he let her taste herself. Her breath rose in a harsh gasp as he slid into her, hilting himself with a low growl. Her hips rolled in time with his as they began to move – _

Sebastian woke with a start, his head falling back to his pillow with a muffled thump. It had been a vivid enough dream; he could tell by the ache of his smalls that it was so. This was no night emission. He hadn't had one of these dreams in years, not since he'd learned to control his breathing as a young man learning to hit a target. He slowed his breathing, concentrating on the intake of air. It had been a mistake to forgo changing the sheets tonight. Her smell clung to his pillow, the blanket around him, enveloping him in something that he couldn't escape. He threw an arm over his eyes in frustration.

He was going to have to take care of this, he thought with a grimace. The breathing wasn't helping, and the pinch he twisted into the side of his hip only made him ache harder, along with the dull throb of a now-bruised hip. He sighed, hating himself for proving the Chantry sisters right about a man having baser instincts than women. His hands skated down his belly, intending to get it done as fast as possible. He shucked his smalls, his flesh rippling into goose bumps in the air of the room as he slid back under his blanket.

The first initial touch was clinical, impartial as he took himself in hand. It had been a long time; he closed his eyes, breathing in a deep, slow breath as his hand stroked the length of his shaft, his pulse speeding in his ears. His fingers gentled as the sensation wandered into his belly, a coiling thread that built into snaking tension. He ached, and the pads of his fingers rasping across his nethers was gratifying. His head lolled back, his other hand resting on his belly as he stroked himself in a languid rhythm. His mind wandered, resting on the curve of her throat, how her hair brushed the nape of her neck just _so_, and how she had smiled at him.

His thumb rolled over the head of his shaft, and he felt himself jerk in response. The ache was building, and he could feel himself nearing completion as the thread that wound its way through his gut was stretched to the breaking point. Then, unbidden, it was _her _hand. She was in his ear, her warm breath coaxing him along as she sighed her arousal at him. His strokes came shorter, faster, as in his mind's eye she twisted against him, murmuring obscene and wonderful things to him, her hands soft and pliant as they sought to please him.

His hips gave an unexpected twitch, and white exploded on the edges of his vision as the thread snapped, covering his hand and his belly with his issue as he let out a soft whine, a sob of frustration and shame. He lay there for a moment as his breathing quieted, his other arm over his eyes. When at last he could think again, he reached for something to clean up, knowing that he could never look into her face again without the burn of guilt to curdle in his heart.

He knelt on the floor of his dormitory until dawn, praying for forgiveness that would never come.


	6. Secret

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Six: Secret

"_A man content to go to heaven alone will never go to heaven." - Boethius_

* * *

He avoided her.

Oh, how he avoided her. When she came to the Chantry to ask him to come along on some investigation or mercenary job, he couldn't meet her eyes. He took to hiding in the confessional, listening to other's sins for hours so that his own would be sublimated. He doled out absolution, unworthy of it himself, and his soul twisted in the irony of it. He did not lead the Chant any longer; his voice that had once gone soaring to the rafters to call on the Maker's grace went unheard.

Soon, she stopped coming.

That made it even worse. He prowled the naves of the Chantry, snapping at initiates until the Grand Cleric was fit to tear her hair out. He was then relegated to the archives, to work his frustrations out on manuscripts that had done nothing to earn his ire. Ink-blotted pages of copied script did nothing to ease his guilt. He spilled ink over pages that were filled with errors under his baleful eye. He was wroth with himself, and nothing he could do would ease that anger.

He wrote of the word of the Maker, and yet his heart was disquiet. He prayed to Andraste, but nothing in her stone face comforted him as before.

The city grew hot as the summer rushed in, heat from the crush of humanity that lived there only serving to make his temper even shorter. The breeze from the ocean could not be felt in Kirkwall, surrounded by the cliffs as it was, unless one lived in Hightown. The Chantry enjoyed an upsurge of penitents during this time, the faithful quadrupling in number so that they had a reason to be in Hightown.

Sebastian sat in the back and brooded.

He labored in the gardens that surrounded the Chantry, hoping the honest toil would do him some good. The burn of the repetitive movement seemed to help cool his frustration. His shirt was folded on a bench as he dug trench after trench. He was planting a line of saplings along the back wall at the instruction of the gardener, Roark.

A bear of a man, he towered over Sebastian by at least a foot. His black eyes and bushy brown hair and beard might make him seem frightening, but it was a case of appearances being deceiving. As imposing as he was, Sebastian had known Roark for years and knew him to be gentle, even timid. He was from Starkhaven as well, and the brogue was a welcome change from the flat accent of the coastal Kirkwaller. Roark's hands could coax life into any plant in the Maker's realm, and he was highly regarded for his knowledge of herbs. Many a noble tried to hire him on to work in a private garden, but Roark always turned them down, claiming that working in the Chantry was "better for his eternal garden than their earthly ones".

He and Roark placed the saplings in the trenches, Roark holding the trees as Sebastian filled in the dirt with careful scoops of his shovel. It was draining, exhausting work, and it was exactly what he needed. He was almost disappointed when the last tree stood on its own and Roark finished tying off the stakes. He leaned on the shovel and accepted the dipper of water the gardener handed him, draining it in a single go and dipping another to pour over his head.

"You're sure you feel that this is the best use of yer time, Highness?" Roark regarded him with beetled brows. He still hadn't weaned the big man from deferring to him using his title, but he had time. Roark was a good man, and it made his soul feel a little cleaner to help him out.

"Aye, Roark. I feel like I can serve the Maker just as well covered in dirt as I can in the confessional."

Roark pulled a carved bone pipe from the front pocket of his shirt and clamped it firmly between his teeth before digging for his leaf pouch. It wasn't spindleweed, but another leaf that produced a tangy and rich, full scent when lit; Sebastian had come to enjoy it and associate it with his friend.

"That's not what I meant, Highness, and ye know it. You've been takin' the piss out of everyone who gets near you, regardless of what you're doing. Even that bonny lass ye used to run around with has shied away. She only came to the Chantry when she knew you were here, too. Good lass, knew a lot about roots and leaves."

"She's around," he said, trying not to go on the defensive. "I visit her from time to time. She has an estate in Hightown now, just around the corner."

"Oh, does she now? I may have to bring her a clipping or two then. She enjoyed the roses here so much." Roark seated himself on the bench, his knees creaking.

"I'm sure she'd like that." His voice was strained, and he bit the sentence off in anger. This was not what he wanted to be doing. He didn't want to talk about Hawke. He dropped onto the bench beside Roark, his hands dangling between his knees.

"I had it right, then." Roark puffed on his pipe, trying to get a good draw. "You're sweet on the Lady Hawke."

"Sweet Maker's _grace_, does everyone just ignore the fact that I have dedicated my life to chastity?" Sebastian all but shouted, leaping up from the bench as if he'd been scalded. "What in all Thedas gives you the _right_ – "

"Easy lad, easy. I meant no harm by it." Roark was calm in the face of Sebastian's temper, blowing a single ring of the fragrant smoke above his head. It was the first time he'd referred to Sebastian by anything but his title, and that served to puncture his bluster.

"Explain yourself, then. I would think that you of all people would have better things to do." Sebastian's jaw muscle jumped as he folded his arms, still agitated.

"You swore a life of chastity, aye. Does that automatically make you Tranquil?" Roark spread his large hands in front of him, palm up.

Sebastian said nothing.

"Ah, ye ken my meaning, then. You can still be devout and have feelings for someone, lad. The Maker works in mysterious ways, and don't I know it. Why, this week I found a whole new rosebush with yellow roses on it. Never seen 'em before in my life, but bless me if they're not there now." He pointed, and Sebastian saw that there were indeed yellow roses growing in the corner next to the Chantry wall, the color delicate and creamy.

"Now, I don't know much about the Maker's mind, and neither do you," Roark said, fixing him with a bland stare. He puffed on his pipe, seeming to savor the smoke. "But I do know he gives you those feelings for a reason. If you feel that way, should it be wrong?"

"Yes," Sebastian said. His voice was hoarse, and it cracked at his words. "I swore myself into His service, pledged my vow to Andraste. _Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever, but the one who repents, who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker's law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction."_

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes on the ground.

"Ah, quoting the Chant at me? You should know better, lad. I've been working these grounds since you were a bairn, and I've had the chance to talk with clerics and templars alike, all with their own idea of what the Chant means. Tell me this: have you broken the Maker's laws? Not the ones you set upon yourself, but the ones that are right and true and are sung at the feet of the Divine in Orlais."

"I…no, I have not." He straightened, and looked Roark in the eye. "I have been true to the Maker's laws and scripture, and have striven to be the best man I can."

"The laws of celibacy were instilled by Ambrosia I, long after Andraste's ascension. I know because there was a templar with your same problem who would come out into the garden to think. He did his research instead of breaking his back planting, though. Good lad. Calvin, I think his name was." Roark's eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned, his teeth white in the brush of his beard.

"_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written._ You're a good man, Sebastian, but still a man. Living life right doesn't mean you can't fall in love. If you love her, and live your life to support her, just as she does with you, then the union is blessed by the Maker and you have done no wrong."

Sebastian swallowed. "But I swore myself to Andraste's service. If I break my oath to be with her, then I am unworthy of her."

"Andraste rests at the Maker's side. She is His Bride, and He shared Her with the world once. Perhaps it's time to let Him have Her." Another puff of fragrant smoke, and Roark leaned back onto the bench, the wood creaking under his weight. "No blasphemy meant, of course. The Maker _did_ intend for His children to go out and create and praise him with their creations. Taking _delight in the Maker's law and creations_, you see. I like to think that wee bairns count."

Sebastian snorted. "Which is why the children around here know to come to you for apples and candied plums?"

Roark laughed. "Aye, and you did too, when you were a wee lad, no denying it."

He sobered, pointing at Sebastian with the end of his pipe. "Think on it, lad. She'll not wait forever."

_She had helped him when no one had even given the missive a second glance. She was nothing much to look at, dressed in trousers and an armored vest, her face dirty. He remembered his initial surprise that such a slight woman had killed several bandits, but the insignias from their coats as well as the heirlooms she had returned had proved it._

"_I've killed the Flint Mercenaries as you asked."_

"_Killed…? Excuse me, but who are - ?"_

_He could have phrased it with a lot more eloquence, but the sentiment was there. In the end, he had paid her and taken his leave, imagining he would never see her again. _

_She showed up the next day for vespers._

_He had been surprised to see her there, even more surprised that the Grand Cleric greeted her like a member of the faithful. His curiosity had made him speak to her again, and the mystery only deepened when he found out she was an apostate. He could not let this curiosity go unabated, and in the beginning, he had wanted to keep an eye on her. He had joined her on several excursions, and the more he had seen, the more he had wanted to stay._

_She had healed him, saved his life on more occasions than he could remember. She took him seriously, and didn't let his vows deter her from at least trying to be his friend. She had come to him for solace when her brother couldn't return with her from the Deep Roads. She had spoken to him for hours on matters of faith, not mocking, but seeking answers and sometimes healthy debate._

He thought back, remembering how she was self-conscious about her chipped tooth when she smiled, only to show it anyway when he managed to tease her about something. Was this wrong? He couldn't tell anymore.

Sebastian took a deep breath and let it out. "All right. I-I'll pray about it."

Roark clapped him on the shoulder, causing him to stagger. "Even better, then."

* * *

He wasn't expecting anyone to visit while he was outside. After all, any of the initiates would have directed visitors to the garden. So when he saw the cloth wrapped bundle on his bed, he had to wonder what it was. It was long and thin, and the cloth was richly embroidered. He undid the string to unroll the bundle, and caught his breath as the polished wood stave of a bow tumbled from the cloth.

He picked it up, running his hands over the silken smooth stave. It was polished by the grip of a loving hand for many years, he could tell. It was rich mahogany in color, although several nicks and scratches in the finish showed signs of abuse. He felt his fingers go numb as they touched a familiar brand in the wood. He had held this bow many times as a young man, and he turned it so that he could see the crest of Starkhaven.

"_When you can draw this on your own power, Pip, then it will pass from my hands to yours."_

When he held it, it fit into his hand as though it were a part of him.

"_When will that be, Grandfather?"_

When he strung it, it hummed, as though it had come home.

"_When the Maker wills it, Pip. You'll know."_

When he turned, nocking and loosing an arrow into the target he stored in the corner in one smooth motion, it sang, a clear note that sounded long after the arrow had found its mark.

His grandfather's bow had returned to its rightful owner.

He unstrung the bow with reverence and placed it in the case, setting aside his old bow to be wrapped in oilskin and stored. Who had done this for him? He searched the wrapping that the bow had been in, and found a scrap of parchment scrawled with cramped, nearly illegible handwriting.

_Sebastian,_

_When you decide you want to keep hunting slavers with me, you'll need something suitable. I meant to give this to you after I got back from the Deep Roads, but I could never catch up with you. Varric told me this was the Starkhaven crest. Thought you might handle it better than I could, and of course Varric is faithful to Bianca._

_-C._

He knew who it was even before he read the opening line. The handwriting gave her away; he'd had to learn to decipher it, even with his training as a scribe. He had to wonder how she had come by it, although the thought of Flint Company's mercenaries with his grandfather's bow in their hands turned his stomach. He traced a finger over the bow in the case, Roark's words echoing back to him.

_She'll not wait forever._

He washed the sweat and dirt from himself and dug through his chest for a clean shirt. He owed her an apology.

* * *

It was close to sunset by the time Sebastian approached the Amell family home. The fading day drenched the sandstone bricks of the houses in dark reds and oranges that set the whole of Hightown ablaze. His grandfather's bow was slung on his back, its weight comforting next to his quiver. He kept reaching for it to reassure himself, and had to stop himself because the guards were giving him funny looks.

He had gone from angry to penitent in record time, and the Grand Cleric noted it in her usual dry manner. He had given her a crooked grin and slipped out the door, promising to make up for lost time in the archives tomorrow. Now he had to talk to Celeste, and make things right.

The Amell estate was not too far from the Chantry proper, he saw. Varric had given him a map when Hawke had moved, but he had never had occasion to use it before now. He navigated the wide streets of Hightown, mingling with the crowds hoping to get their shopping done before the stalls closed at nightfall. Bodahn Feddic, a dwarf he had seen in the square peddling his goods answered his knock, greeting him and ushering him inside.

"My lady hasn't yet returned from her errands, but you're welcome to wait in the foyer. Would you like something to drink, Master Vael?"

"Bodahn, there's no need for all this formality, really. Sebastian is fine." Sebastian settled himself in front of the fire to wait, taking one of the plush chairs for himself. "Where is the Lady Leandra? I thought that she did not normally leave the house anymore."

"She does take walks, to visit her brother Gamlen in Lowtown, although Cambert is usually with her." Bodahn gestured at the Mabari curled up in front of the fire. Cambert heard his name and sat up, regarding Sebastian with intelligent eyes. "She _did_ say she had a suitor. Which is good for the Lady, she'll not be so worried about finding Celeste a husband while she's occupied."

Sebastian grinned at Bodahn. "Good for her. I hope she finds someone who'll treat her as she deserves." He was feeling magnanimous at the moment, and that even included Leandra.

The door to the estate opened, admitting Hawke and Varric. The two were having an argument about who was better at Wicked Grace, Hawke with a few purchases under her arm. She stopped when she saw Sebastian, the bow in his lap, and her lips curved into a slow smile that sent a jolt straight through his system. Varric coughed to hide his amusement at Sebastian's expression. He took Bodahn by the arm and walked him to the other room, engaging his attention with matters that concerned the Merchant's Guild.

She dropped her parcels on the table and sat next to him, leaning down to pet Cambert, who wriggled his large head into his mistress's lap almost as soon as she touched the chair. She turned that smile on him again, and he returned it, leaning back in the chair.

"I see you've stopped your sulk," she said.

"Ah. You heard about that."

"You've been avoiding me for weeks, Sebastian. Grand Cleric Elthina says you've been moody and snappish. Something I did, I'm sure."

He flushed. "No, no, it was nothing you did. I've been…having a crisis of faith."

"_You_? Really?" She looked around, her tone conspiratorial. "If you're having a crisis of faith, what does that mean for the rest of Kirkwall?"

He laughed. He really had missed this. "All of us have crises at one point in our lives or another. How we deal with them shows the strength of our belief in the Maker. I'm afraid mine showed me I was not being very good at putting my trust in Him."

"Well, if you're here, that means you're taking me up on my offer." She gestured at the bow he still held in his hands, smiling. "Is it suitable?"

"You have no idea how much so. This was my grandfather's bow." He swallowed. "It was to go to me when I came of age, but I never managed to get back to Starkhaven to claim it. I was always too busy in the Chantry. I had thought it lost to looters."

"You were close to him?"

"Yes, as close as a third son could get. My brothers took up much of his time." A shadow of the old jealousy passed across his face, fading into sorrow. "I miss them all."

"I'm sorry, Sebastian. If I can help somehow, I will."

"You've already done more than enough, helping me to avenge them. I still haven't had any luck finding out who hired the Flint Company." His face darkened. "Once I do, I may ask for your assistance in bringing them to justice."

"Of course." She stroked Cambert's head, the hound eating up the attention. Sebastian couldn't blame him, really. "I know how hard it is. I still see Bethany in my dreams, sometimes."

"That was not your fault, as I've said before."

"I know. It doesn't stop me from reliving it, thinking I could have _done_ something. It's the same way with Carver." She sighed. "All I have is Mama now. It's lonely here. Carver writes, but not to me. He blames me for the Deep Roads, I'm sure."

"That wasn't your fault, either." Sebastian frowned. "Carver will learn that, eventually."

"Once he gets it through his thick skull. He's my brother, and I love him, but it doesn't stop me from wanting to punch him sometimes."

"Aye, I can imagine." He smiled at the thought of his own brothers.

"But you're not here to share sorrow, are you? You rarely leave the Chantry, unless it's to deliver more supplies to Anders. He's noticed that you don't even try to talk to him anymore. I think he misses the bickering. He's taken to trying to bait Fenris, who ignores him most of the time, and making Merrill cry, which makes me yell at him."

"No, I'm not here for that. I came to apologize for the way I've been acting, and to offer my services again. To be honest, the Chantry has grown dull, now that I know what kind of trouble you get yourself into."

She shot him a sidelong glance. "Is that your way of saying you missed us?"

_It's my way of saying I missed __**you**__._ "Perhaps. Maybe I just like being the one to save the day when others sit in quiet contemplation."

She laughed. "You're not nearly that conceited. But it's good to have you back. I, for one, missed your company."

He grinned at her, his heart loosening its grip on the guilt he felt. "I – "

A banging on the front door interrupted him. Bodahn bustled through the room to answer it, stumbling back into the room as Gamlen pushed into the house.

Hawke was on her feet in an instant as her uncle found her. "Gamlen, what is it?"

"Have you seen your mother? She never came by for our weekly visit."

"Mama hasn't been home since this afternoon, unless Bodahn has seen her." She looked to her steward.

"She said she was leaving for a walk, but she didn't take your hound with her like she usually does, m'lady. She left right after she got the flowers."

"Flowers?" She looked as if she were trying to remember something that was on the tip of her tongue.

"Yes, someone sent her some white lilies with a lovely card. She said she was going out to meet with him."

Varric's face was the first to pale. "She got lilies? Are you positive it was _lilies_?"

"Yes, just this morning, after you and m'lady left."

"Hawke, this is bad. Remember the disappearances we tracked to the foundry?"

Sebastian felt the color drain from his face.

It came back in a rush. The swirl of robes as a hooded figure disappeared into the shadows of the abandoned foundry, leaving demons and abominations in his wake to cover his escape. The human remains they had found and a cold case that was left open in the guard docket.

Hawke's voice shook as she spoke. "We have to find her. Now."

Little crackles of fire flared at her fingertips as she tried to keep her panic from welling up.

"Gamlen, go back to Lowtown, in case you missed her on the way. Bodahn, go find Anders. He should be at his clinic. Take the cellar, it's faster." If Gamlen was upset about being ordered around, he didn't show it, running down the streets of Hightown back to his house. Bodahn disappeared as well, almost before she finished speaking.

"Varric, Sebastian, let's go." She whistled for Cambert, and the Mabari heeled, his fur bristling at his mistress's tone. They plunged into the dark of Kirkwall, and all Sebastian could do was pray to the Maker that they weren't too late.


	7. Sorrow

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Seven: Sorrow

* * *

The pounding of their feet on the cobblestones was a frantic counterpoint to the thudding of his heart. He remembered his off-hand quip to Bodahn and was suffused with shame. He pushed himself harder, ignoring the stitch in his side as he ran.

"_I hope she finds someone who'll treat her as she deserves."_

The search through Hightown had been a quick one. Celeste pounded on doors, interrogated nobles, and only Varric kept her from permanent damage to her reputation in her frenzy. Leandra Hawke hadn't done much to endear herself to the neighbors, not after her return to Kirkwall, anyway. The few old matrons that remembered the belle of Kirkwall with fondness claimed they had not seen her this afternoon. No one had seen her in the noble's quarter.

Cambert caught the scent on the stairwell to Lowtown, and the chase was on. They tore through alleys and back streets, the Mabari almost knocking Anders down as he waylaid them from a side street. He'd had no luck, but he had crossed paths with Gamlen, who had found a child with information.

They found Gamlen a few blocks from his house, shaking a young boy by the arm, his voice laced with equal parts fury and panic.

"Where did you see her? So help me, boy, if you're lying to me – "

"Gamlen." Celeste had forced a measure of calm into her voice, and now it rang with sure authority. "Let him go."

Gamlen whirled on her. "He knows where she is, girl! She could be dying right this second!"

"Shaking him into senselessness isn't helping, Uncle. Scaring him will only make him withhold information. Let. Him. Go."

Gamlen dropped the boy's arm, stepping towards his niece. Sebastian found himself stepping forward as well. He needn't have bothered. Gamlen was suddenly slammed to the ground with enough force to drive the breath from his lungs. He lay in the dust of Lowtown, coughing as he tried to breathe. Celeste knelt next to him, lightning crackling along her hands. She fisted a hand in his hair, lifting his head so she could meet his eyes.

"I have loved and labored to keep my mother safe for my entire life. I promised my father that I would take care of her. You will _not_ be the one to tell me how to go about the business of providing for my family. You have not lifted so much as a finger to aid me: you sold my brother and me into servitude to pay our passage into Kirkwall, and you frittered away my mother's inheritance because you felt entitled to what you did not own. You have no _right_." Her voice was a low snarl, the threat of an oncoming storm in her tone, and Sebastian repressed the shiver that trailed fingertips down his spine.

She dropped Gamlen's head back to the dirt and turned to the boy, who was looking at her with a mixture of fright and amazement. She rose from her spot next to Gamlen and reached into her hip pouch, pulling out several sovereigns. At the sight of the gold, the boy shifted nervous feet, but came closer.

Her voice was gentle, belying the fact that she'd just used an extension of her will to pin a man twice her size to the ground. "Tell me what you know, and these are yours."

"W-well, serrah, I saw the lady walking along the bridge. She was looking for summat, someone, mebbe. Then this man, he staggers up to her, an' he's all covered in blood, like. He falls down next to her and he says 'Help me, please.' She picks 'im up and she asks 'im where he lived. He points in that direction – " the boy waved an arm in the general direction of the foundry, and Sebastian felt that foreboding wash over him again – "an' that's the last I saw of either of 'em."

"Where did he fall?" Hawke looked around. "We're close to the bridge, aren't we?"

"Yes, serrah. Over there." He pointed, and she dropped the coins into his hand.

"Buy food, go home, and stay out of trouble." She flashed him a smile.

"Yes, serrah. Thank you, serrah!" The boy darted off.

Hawke rolled Gamlen over with the toe of her boot, her kick anything but gentle.

"_You_ go home. If she comes to your house, keep her there. Don't let her out of your sight, or so help me you'll wish you were dead when I get through with you. You will pray for a release that will never come, and I will enjoy each and every second of it, _uncle_." Cold fury radiated from her in waves, and Gamlen staggered to his feet, desperate to get away. He disappeared around a corner, and the line of tension in Hawke's shoulders eased somewhat. She let out a heavy breath, and turned to the group.

"Can I say right now that you scare the ever-loving piss out of me, even worse than Aveline?" Varric said.

"Seconded." Anders murmured. Sebastian found himself nodding in silent agreement.

"Not now, Varric. I'm not feeling very complimentary."

"Right, sorry."

Cambert was way ahead of them, his broad nose in the dirt. The Mabari snuffled, ears twitching forward as he picked up the scent. He took off down the street, giving a low growl that would soon work its way up the register to the full-throated roar that made the dogs so feared in battle. The fur bristled along his back, and he stopped only long enough to make sure his mistress was following.

Sebastian ran, stumbling as a green glow limned the party. He shot a glance at Anders, but the mage only shrugged as the haste spell propelled them faster, toward the foundry district. Their breathing and the pounding of their feet along the cobbles was the only sound as they chased the hound to the steps of an abandoned warehouse, one that was familiar and imposing in the moonless dark.

Flames sprang to life around Celeste's hands as she took in the wooden door. Before Varric could test and pick the lock, the door was gone, cinders in a wave of fire that licked from her fingers as she stormed through the burning wreckage. The fire limned her entire body now, encasing her in her anger and fear.

"Well, never let me overstate my usefulness ever again," Varric muttered. Hawke moved on, not hearing the complaint, or not caring.

The warehouse was quiet and dark, the coals of the foundry that had stood here in the glory days of the Tevinter Empirium long since cold. Large vats that had been used to smelt the ore from the mines loomed like gaping mouths, screaming in silent pleas in the darkness. The scurrying of small animals in the shadows sent tremors of anticipation through his system, and his pulse thudded in his ears as they crept through the room. The only light was the magical fire that enveloped Celeste, and it cast the room in grisly oranges and reds as she moved, following Cambert's snuffling.

The Mabari was following a trail, and soon it was enough for even an untrained tracker to follow; huge gouts of darkening blood were spattered in the dust, black and cloying in the flickering of the flames. They rounded the platform that led to the second floor and the offices, the stairs stretching upward into oblivion. The gouts of blood were spaced in erratic splashes, leaving the floor stained with some mad painter's palette. Sebastian had already readied his bow; the ratcheting click of Bianca's safety coming undone was loud in the silence of the room.

The stairs squealed under their weight, seeming to protest the tread of so many people in the dying building. No one appeared to meet them, and Sebastian could feel his nerves being wound tight, adrenaline coursing through him as he held himself in check. He reached for his quiver and nocked an arrow, feeling sweat bead in his temples as he strained to hear anything over Cambert's low, persistent growling. The hallway that led to offices and storage were also silent; apart from all the blood, it appeared that this place was well and truly abandoned, a relic of Tevinter that should have stayed buried.

The Mabari led them to a corner of the hallway, his growl changing in pitch when he came to what appeared to be a dead end. Sebastian and Varric pushed past the dog, who was scrabbling at the scarred wooden floor with his large front paws, trying to get at something. A snap of the fingers from Celeste and the dog heeled, allowing the two rogues to work. Varric felt around with his broad fingers, finally grunting in acknowledgement as he tapped at a board.

"I can't quite get this one, Choir Boy. You up to it?"

"I'll do my best." He slipped his fingers into the catch Varric showed him, feeling the mechanism there with his index and middle fingers.

"Crude," he said, wiggling the catch and leaning backward as the trap door fell inward with a creak. A black tunnel greeted their eyes, yawning into what seemed like forever. He looked at Celeste, the slow burn of the fire around her dimming as she started to regain control of herself. Anders reached into one of his pouches and lit a torch with a wave of his fingers, passing it to Sebastian, who replaced his bow on his back for the moment.

"She can't keep that up forever," he said, glancing at Hawke. She was staring at the tunnel, her face blank. She was trembling in a way that bespoke her impressive control about to shatter. Cambert sniffed at the yawning hole, whining.

"All right, first one in doesn't pay for drinks for a month," said Varric.

"I don't drink," Sebastian and Anders said in unison. They glanced at each other, unwilling to admit that they had more in common than they thought.

Sebastian took hold of the top of the crude ladder that led downward. He set his foot in the second rung and placed his weight on it, testing its strength. Assured that it was stable, he descended into the darkness, the torch awkward to hold but the light comforting. He touched ground sooner than he thought, jarring as his boots met the dirt floor. He waved the torch, hoping the others could see it.

They descended one by one, first Varric, then Celeste, then finally Anders. Cambert paced back and forth in front of the trap door, whining because he could no longer follow. Celeste whistled to him, and he settled himself at the edge of the trap door, snuffling in agitation. They took in the tunnel around them, the dark blotches of blood not abating as they moved toward a pinprick of light at the end. Sebastian handed the torch to Anders and readied his bow again, his nerves drawn tighter than his arrow as the light grew brighter.

The tunnel opened up on a room that had been hollowed out in the space between the spaces, a secret in the forgotten Undercity. Braziers lit the walls, casting flickering shadows on the ceiling. Bookshelves littered the room, and papers were scattered across the desk, showing that the room was lived in, if not exclusively, then a majority of the time. Guttering candles on the desk suggested that the owner had just stepped out.

"Someone…someone _lives _here?" said Anders, squinting around at the room.

"You live in your clinic. Is it really so odd, Blondie?" Varric raised his eyebrow.

"Touché." Anders looked sour, but Varric had a fair point. He tossed the torch onto one of the braziers so he could look around.

Sebastian could see Celeste getting herself under control. The flames had died out when she had climbed down the ladder, but she still bore that blank expression. He itched to help, but he had no idea how, and it was beginning to drive him slightly mad. In the end, he eased his hold on his arrow and stepped up beside her, taking her hand in his own.

She startled but didn't pull away. He ran his thumb in a soothing motion along her hand. She met his eyes and let out a shaky breath.

"We'll find her," he said, knowing it might be a lie and hoping with all his being that it wasn't. She nodded and gave his hand a brief squeeze before letting go.

"We have to," she said. "Carver would never forgive me."

He looked around the room again. Something about the place did not sit right, and not just because it was possibly the sitting room of a murderer. Papers and books were scattered in haphazard piles throughout the room, almost as if someone was in the middle of research. He poked through some of them, noting that they were mostly scribblings on the various properties of certain preservation methods. A paragraph caught his eye.

_When one uses this compound in conjunction with the oils bought from Tevinter, a certain softness is achieved. The flesh is preserved, and it is as if her hands could touch me again. The oil is fragrant, and does not allow putrescence to fester, ruining the look of her gentle fingers. This is a rousing success, and gives me hope for the future. I must find the rest; it is an imperative I can no longer deny myself, now that I can preserve the parts until they are made whole again. She is so close now that I can feel her breath, and her smile lights the darkness. O. was right; the research is dangerous, but necessary._

He swallowed, dropping the parchment back to the desk. All the blood…

"Hawke." Varric's voice shook. "Above the fireplace."

Sebastian turned as she did, his eyes going to the portrait above the mantle. Apart from slight differences, it could have been a younger Leandra Hawke. His limbs felt cold all over.

"Mama?" Hawke tilted her head to the side, stepping forward to squint at the portrait.

"Hawke, don't – " Varric's protest was cut short as her fingertips touched the wooden frame.

Howls erupted around them.

Darkness swirled in like a living thing, snuffing several of the braziers. Demons began to climb through rips in the Fade, slavering as they pulled themselves through to the physical world. Some rose from the floors, other came from shadows in the corners, some from the fireplace itself. Papers and books burst into flames, set alight by the demons as they sought to overpower the living.

Anders burst forth with a blue light, Justice leaping to the forefront to battle. His spells sizzled past Sebastian, who was backpedaling as fast as he could to get some range between himself and the demons. Varric did the same, flinging a handful of pellets that erupted into smoke when they hit the ground. Celeste dove to the side, a gesture of her hand causing several of the demons to stumble to the ground and writhe there, caught in her spell. Another gesture and a second ring of demons collapsed to the ground, howling in anger.

Green light lined her form as she placed a paralyzation rune at her feet. As the spell on the demons lifted, they surged forward, only to be caught by the rune and frozen into place. She brought her hands up, touching her thumbs and forefingers together and the temperature in the room dropped to painful levels as ice spilled from her fingertips, encasing them in biting cold.

Sebastian launched arrow after arrow, his bow singing death as his shots punctured vitals. Varric's crossbow gave a grinding ratchet; at his shout, Celeste scrambled out of the way as a stream of bolts peppered demons in a wide arc. Another paralyzation rune joined the floor as hers began to fade, Justice sending another wave of cold against the demons. Sebastian could see his breath in the air as the temperature dropped again.

A snarl behind him made him spin to face his new attacker, but a clout to the face sent him staggering as the abomination surged forward. He stumbled backward, landing hard on his back. The abomination loomed over him, arms reaching to clutch at him and tear out his throat. Shards of ice sprouted from its chest, going from clear to a hazy red as blood seeped around the wound. The monster grasped at the shards in its chest, falling backward as a bolt of lightning sizzled into its face.

A hand grabbed him by the breastplate and helped to heave him up, and he was met with Justice's glowing blue eyes. To his surprise, the spirit nodded and released him, turning once more to the fray. He didn't have the time to process it, however, because another wave of demons began pulling themselves from the Fade.

"Enough of this!" Celeste braced herself with spread legs, her arms coming up as she drew upon the magic within herself. Sebastian felt a curious sucking sensation, like his limbs were stuck in mud, as the air in the room began to thicken. Time seemed to slow, hazing itself out over minutes instead of seconds, and then the sensation faded from him.

The demons weren't so lucky; they moved as if they were underwater. He and Varric made quick work of them, picking them off with shots to eyes and throats. Justice and Celeste mopped up the ones clumped together, the abominations' cries sounding thin and far away within the range of the spell. The room faded to quiet as the last of the demons was silenced.

Both mages staggered, Celeste sitting down hard as Anders returned to the forefront of his consciousness. He leaned against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut. Sebastian knelt next to Celeste and placed a hand on her shoulder. She waved off his help, pulling a glowing blue vial of lyrium from her pouch and downing it. She seemed to feel better, drawing in a breath and letting it out in a small sigh.

"I'll be fine in a minute," she said. She corked the bottle and replaced it in her pouch. "That one takes a lot out of me."

He helped her to her feet and looked around the room. Everything was a mess, books and papers half charred and blackened, blood painting the rest to illegibility. Corpses littered the room, and yet did not seem out of place. His eyes narrowed as he noticed a small side door.

"Varric, was that there before?"

"If it was, Choir Boy, we both missed it."

He moved forward and pressed his ear to the wood. It was some distance away, but he could hear what sounded like a man speaking. Silence was not their aim anymore; the demons had ruined any chance for surprise. Still, the sound of the voice, almost a croon, told him that they were very close to finding Leandra. The door was unlocked. Whoever was there had placed more faith in his wards than he should have. He twisted the handle, unsure of what was waiting on the other side.

The corridor was a slaughterhouse. Human corpses littered the floors, the stones that made up the walkway tacky with drying blood. Heads, hands, feet, and other body parts lay scattered, a madman's puzzle. Sebastian suppressed the bile that rose in his throat at the sight. The horror of it almost overwhelmed him when he realized that the corpses were all female.

"Maker's grace, how long has this gone on?" he breathed, trying to keep himself together. "Sweet Andraste, guide these poor souls to the Maker's side, light the way for them. We will lay them to rest as soon as our task is done."

"Yes, because the Maker helped them so much before," snapped Anders. Celeste shot him a sharp look, and he subsided.

Varric was pale, but his jaw set firm as he loaded another quiver of bolts into Bianca's reserve. The group moved forward, toward the flickering of torchlight at the end of the corridor. A man stood there, his robes soiled and his hair lank and greasy. He spoke in a low singsong to a figure seated in a chair, someone that Sebastian couldn't see. He seemed to notice them as they entered the room. He turned, his smile ingratiating even as he picked up his staff from where it leaned against the table.

"Ah, but we have guests, my dear. Don't fuss yourself, you're feeling delicate. I'll see to them." He smiled again, and Sebastian couldn't suppress the ripple of _wrong_ that shot through him.

"What have you done with my mother?" Celeste stepped to the forefront, her own staff at the ready.

"Oh, she's here. She agreed to become part of something bigger than herself, and so graciously donated the face I needed." His smile widened, and he grasped the back of the chair, turning it to face them. Leandra's head lolled, lifeless, on the shoulders of a stitched together amalgamation of body parts, her sightless eyes seeming to fix on her daughter with mute accusation.

Varric's cry of "Shit!" was drowned out by the howl of anger and sorrow that issued from the apostate as she burst into white hot flame. Heat licked at Sebastian's hair and clothes and he dove away from Celeste, trying to get away from the flames. She flicked her wrist, and the man went spinning away, the lifeless Frankenstein toppling from the chair as he was pinned against the wall. This seemed to anger him. He snarled, breaking free from Celeste's hold with a show of force of his own. The slim dagger seemed to appear in mid-air and the long gash he cut down his forearm to fuel his magic caused the air in the room to begin crackling.

Justice had reasserted himself, Celeste's cry drawing him from the depths of Anders's mind to face their new foe. Twin fireballs arced from their fingertips as they unleashed everything they had on the blood mage. Both fireballs broke in waves over the mage's shield, stunning the demons that had begun to pour into the room at his call. Sebastian and Varric loosed missiles into the conflagration, although he couldn't be sure that his arrows would hit anything in the wake of that blistering heat.

Ice swirled into being around a desire demon as she pulled herself from a yawning hole in the floor, freezing her in place. Celeste brought her fists together and then pulled them apart in a twisting motion. Cracking sounded throughout the ice that encased the demon and the whole thing shattered, breaking into pieces as the mage exerted her will.

More demons poured from the shadows, only to be driven back with alternating blasts of fire, ice, and lightning. Celeste seemed to be fueling her magic with hate rather than mana, doing everything in her power to drop the mage's shield so she could get to him. Her bladed staff was as much a weapon as a focusing device; she impaled several demons and then blew them back with a show of telekinetic force.

Sebastian peppered their foes with arrows, but he would be the first to admit that he was not a factor in the turning point of the battle. The blood mage ran out of power as the corpses piled up. His own blood was draining out, but he made no move to use the bodies around him to refill his power like most blood mages he had seen. Perhaps he was afraid of hurting his 'creation', but no one would ever get the chance to ask him.

Celeste saw the flicker as the shield began to weaken. She turned, bringing her staff around in a sweeping arc and driving it into the man's thin chest, twisting it into his heart. The battle ended, not with a shout of victory, but with a sigh as the mage slid to the ground, lifeless. The flames that had sustained Hawke guttered and died out as she dropped to her knees and gathered her mother's remains in her arms.

"Mama, please, speak to me." Her voice shook. Tears cut tracks through the blood that had spattered her face, and she cradled her mother's head against her shoulder. "I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner. We'll take you to the clinic – it's close, I know you don't like how dirty it is – "

"Hawke." Anders's voice was choked, hesitating. "There's…there's nothing we can do. It's too late. She's gone."

She whirled on him, her teeth bared. "Is that what Justice told you, abomination?"

Anders reeled back as if he'd been struck. "Hawke – "

"No! If you won't _help me_, then get out of my way. Nothing in your precious Circle teachings can save my mother? Then I'll do the best I can with what I have." Her hands glowed with the bright green light of healing as she placed them on her mother's torso. She sobbed as the light was absorbed by the dead flesh, to no effect.

"Come on," she breathed, sending another wave of healing through her hands. "Mama, you can't go. I promised Father…"

Varric stepped up; he seemed to lose what was left of his common sense to place a hand on Hawke's shoulder. She twisted out of his grasp, clutching her mother to her.

"No! No more _words_, Varric. Not if you can't back up your bluster with something _real_. This isn't one of your stories, dwarf. My mother isn't going to die in this place."

Sebastian knelt by her, silent. She turned her tear streaked face to him, waiting for him to offer words of comfort. He simply bent his head in prayer. It seemed to strike home that Leandra was really gone; Celeste sobbed in earnest, seeking comfort in her mother that would never come again. He reached out to close the sightless eyes and laid his hand on her brow as he commended her spirit to the Maker's side.

How long she remained seated there, her mother's body in her arms, Sebastian couldn't say. Her sobbing had long since stopped, replaced with that eerie blankness she had worn before. She finally rose, crossing her mother's arms over her chest. Her eyes were dead, cold to everyone around her.

"Gather the bodies, all except for _his_. We'll burn them."

* * *

They finally got back to the Amell family home close to dawn. Anders looked worn to the bone; the dark circles under his eyes were as much from lack of sleep as anything else, but having Vengeance sitting at the forefront so long had been taxing, Sebastian was sure. Varric had borne up well, but he kept shooting Celeste worried looks that Sebastian could not help but echo.

She moved as though her joints were mechanical, refusing food and the offer of a bath from Bodahn and climbing the stairs to her room. The door shut with a snap, and left the four men to stand around and look at their toes for a moment. Cambert snuffled at the door and gave a low whine, settling his body against the crack in the bottom.

"I guess we'll have to take it in shifts," said Anders with a resigned sigh. He sank into one of the armchairs near the fireplace, staring into the cold ashes.

"Take what in shifts, Blondie? You can barely stand as it is." Varric fixed Anders with a stare that spoke volumes. "Come on, let's get you a room for the night. Day. Whatever, it's my treat. You could use a hot bath and a meal."

"What about Hawke? Who's going to take care of her?"

"Bodahn and Choir Boy can get it."

"No." Anders struggled to stand, anger in every line of his form. "You really think I'd let her be alone with that kind of grief? She's going to sink into depression if we don't do something, and I don't trust him to do it."

Sebastian bristled, but Varric was quicker. "How many grieving families have you counseled, Blondie? Choir Boy has been working and living in the Chantry for years now. It falls to initiates to provide comfort to the grief-stricken. He's got this."

Anders scowled, but was too tired to argue. He shot Sebastian a warning glance as Varric helped him up. "You had better take care of her. I'll come to check up on her once I've slept."

"I would do nothing less."

The apostate shook his head as he and Varric shambled out of the estate. "I hope so. For your sake." The door closed behind them, Bodahn leaning against it in weary resignation.

The steward raised tired eyes to him, and Sebastian saw the dark circles that were becoming a fashion statement among the people who shared Hawke's company. He had no doubt he looked as tired as he felt; his eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep and the emotional exhaustion he'd experienced.

"Is it true, messere? Is Lady Leandra…?" Bodahn couldn't even say it.

"Aye, Bodahn, she rests in the Maker's embrace." Sebastian bowed his head, and heard a quiet sob come from Bodahn. "Your mistress needs us now, though. Would you draw water for washing and maybe find her something to eat?"

"Certainly, messere. Go and see to her, I'll be up shortly." Bodahn busied himself with caring for the living, and Sebastian moved to do the same.

* * *

He climbed the stairs to the second floor, seeing Cambert still on the landing in front of Celeste's door. The Mabari wagged his tail and rolled to the side, allowing Sebastian to pass.

"You are indeed like the stories say. Smart enough not to talk." He leaned down and rubbed the dog's chest. Cambert huffed agreement.

He checked the door. It wasn't locked, but he rapped his knuckles against the wood before opening it anyway. "Celeste?"

There was no answer. He pushed the door open wider, poking his head into the darkened room. The bed was still made, the bedclothes as smooth as the dwarves could get them. His eyes adjusted to the pre-dawn light, searching for her.

She stood in front of the window, her arms crossed across her stomach in a defensive posture. Her head was tilted to the side, like she was contemplating something.

"Celeste?" He crossed the room to her, coming up behind her and putting her hands on her shoulders. "Celeste, please, talk to me."

"I wonder if anyone will notice if I decided to jump out the window."

He startled. "What?"

"Jumping out the window, Sebastian. You know, flinging myself to the cobbles below. I wonder if anyone would notice."

He tightened his hold on her shoulders. She didn't respond, but he drew her back against his chest anyway, wrapping his arms about her. "I would notice."

"Would you?" She huffed a laugh, a dead thing in the shadows of the room. "You would say a prayer for me, and then go back to the Chantry. A fine thing."

"It would be more than that. Celeste, I care about you. So do the others. Varric, Anders, Fenris, Isabella, Aveline. Even Merrill, although she's an odd one. We would all be devastated if you were to die. Please, don't talk like this."

She shrugged out of his grip, twitching the curtains closed with a shaking hand. "I failed my family, Sebastian. What do I have to live for now? All of them, dead or living with a death sentence."

"Us. You can live for us. All of us, we're your family too."

Bodahn chose that moment to bustle in, discreet as ever. He laid out a platter of food and a steaming bucket of water for washing. Sebastian poured the water into the basin, grimacing at how grimy the water turned with the touch of his hands. He dipped a rag into the water and moved to her, gently applying the steaming cloth to her blood-caked face. She sagged under his ministrations, leaning into his palm as he wiped the last of the dirt away.

He washed her hands, then helped her get her filthy boots off, settling her on the edge of one of the chairs. Her clothes were filthy too, but he balked at stripping her down. She would sleep better clean, though. He firmed his jaw. The Maker knew that he went through trials, and it was just another test of his resolve.

He debated if he should leave her alone. She seemed docile enough, even with the conversation he'd just had with her. He had faith that her inner strength was greater than that, and so he squeezed her hand and went to go find Bodahn.

It took several trips up the stairs with buckets of steaming water, but soon they got the copper tub filled. She sat there in silence, staring at the cold ashes of the fireplace as the tub was filled. Bodahn and Sandal trooped out with the buckets after lighting a new fire in the grate. Sebastian knelt in front of her, cupping her cheeks in his hands.

"Are you well enough to bathe?"

"Why should I?"

"It will help you sleep."

"I don't want to sleep. There's no point."

"Celeste, that's not an option. Are you well enough to bathe, or am I going to have to assist you?" He swallowed around that last part of the sentence. It needed to be done, and he would do his duty.

"There's no point."

"Then you need my help. All right." He made sure the curtains were closed and helped her to stand, her movements listless as she took only vague interest in what was happening. He helped her take off her leathers, stacking the armor in a neat pile beside the door for Bodahn to clean later. She stood before him in her trousers and shirt, staring off into nothing. He eased the shirt over her head, careful to keep his touch within realms of propriety. She shimmied out of her trousers, her smalls coming with them. Her breast band came next, and he glanced away to keep her modesty intact.

She stepped into the tub at his urging, flinching a little at the heat of the water. Any reaction at this point was good, Sebastian knew. He lathered a clean, wet rag with soap and set to work, scrubbing her shoulders, legs, and feet. His touch was gentle, but spare, touching her only when he needed to, and he avoided looking at her for as long as he could.

He couldn't help the glances he got, and what he saw would haunt him for weeks, if not his lifetime, he knew. Creamy skin flushed with the heat of the bath, soap slick shoulders and neck, lather that covered everything else. He closed his eyes and prayed for strength. Not even in his wildest dreams would he take advantage of her in such a state. But were she willing…

He waved that thought away and set about washing the gore from her hair, tipping her head back and covering her eyes as he dipped water to rinse out the soap. Her hair clean, there was nothing to do but bundle her in a drying sheet and seat her on the edge of the bed while he took care of his own mess. He rang for Bodahn, so that the dwarf could take care of their clothes. He set the privacy screen between the tub and the bed, stripping and sinking into the cooling water. Bodahn collected the clothing, and nodded when Sebastian asked him to send someone to the chantry for the rest of his gear.

He marveled at the efficiency of the dwarf and his son when he heard the latch of the door open again before he'd even finished washing. His chest was set just to the inside of the door and his armor was whisked away to be cleaned. He wrapped the towel around his midsection and snatched a pair of smalls and trousers as quickly as he could, darting back behind the screen so he could be decent. He muffled a grunt of frustration as he did a one legged hop into his trousers. He went back for a shirt, glancing over at the bed.

Hawke was dozing, murmuring in fitful sleep and still wrapped in the towel. Maker's mercy, he was a clod. He dug out one of his softer fencer's shirts after shrugging into the one he had. Moving to the bed, he sat her up, wincing as she whimpered in her sleep. He helped her into the shirt, trying not to be pleased at the way it fell beyond her hips and enveloped her. Lifting her, he pulled back the bedclothes and tucked her into the clean sheets, drawing the blankets up to her chin. He turned to go, but a whisper stalled him.

"…stay."

He hesitated.

"Please."

He found that he didn't have the heart to deny her when her voice sounded so _lost_. He sat upon the bed, settling himself against the headboard and drawing her against his side. She wrapped an arm across his stomach, nosing into his side and sighing as she fell back into restless dreams. He stroked her hair as the sun rose over Kirkwall and the unsuspecting started their day.

* * *

It was dark when he woke, still muzzy from fitful sleep. He tried to blink, tried to find light, but there was none. He was starting to doze off again when the whisper of movement sounded in the quiet room.

He was suddenly aware of a weight settling itself across his hips. Warm hands fluttered into his shirt, palms stroking across his chest, followed by the press of lips. He gave a soft groan and the lips gave way to a tongue, the caress one that his body reacted to on instinct. He felt his shirt being pushed up and he floated in a haze of sleep and arousal, making small sounds of approval at her lips and hands. His own hands came up to her hips and massaged there, a small smile beginning on his lips as she gave a soft moan of need.

"Mnh, Sebastian," she whispered, pressing her lips to his sternum, and that was when the haze of sleep cleared. He came awake, nearly dumping her off the bed in his startlement. He grabbed her wrists, tipping her off his lap and onto the bed. She made a sound of frustration, wriggling back after him. He held her firm, although it was hard to do when his body wanted nothing more than to melt into her heat.

"Celeste, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like I was doing?" she said, hurt in her voice. "I was trying to sleep with you. I figured that would be obvious to someone who's done it before."

He bit down on the small jolt of arousal that shot down his spine and cleared his throat. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Sebastian…"

"No, listen to me. You're hurting. This is a natural reaction, to try and express that hurt and prove to yourself you still feel something. You're not in a good frame of mind right now, and this will only end up hurting you in the long run." He was kicking himself, but he was saying the right thing, and he knew it.

She sighed and rolled over onto her side. "I don't believe you. You wanted to, too. I could tell."

"Sometimes doing what you want and what needs to be done are two separate things."

"I wish you weren't so noble."

"No, you don't, not really."

A small sigh was her only answer. Sebastian sat up and opened the curtain. A small sliver of moon provided enough light for him to walk over to the fireplace and get a small spark going. He found his boots and pulled them on. Hesitating just a moment, he went back over to the bed, tugging the blankets back up around her and dropping a kiss onto her forehead.

"Where are you going?"

"To find a bucket of cold water to soak my head." He smiled at her, noting the way her eyes were already slipping shut again. His hand lingered on the latch for a moment before he went to seek out the kitchen.


	8. Staunch

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Eight: Staunch

* * *

The kitchen was cold and dark, the embers of the fire burning low. Sebastian stirred the coals, shivering a little in the chill of the air. Kirkwall still managed to get cold in the summer evening, which was something he had never managed to figure out. He added more wood to the fire, holding his fingers above the licking flames to warm them.

He settled down, slowly but surely. He still felt her lips on the skin of his chest and his palms burned with the feel of her, but it was fading with the chill in the air. He was confident he had done the right thing; his body would just have to hate him for a while. He squatted, settling back on his heels and poking at the logs that snapped in the flames. There would be time and more for that when her emotional state was set to rights. If this was supposed to be right, then he would make the best effort to take it one step at a time.

Light footsteps made him turn to the doorway. Lyrium tattoos glowed silver in the firelight as Fenris leaned against the jamb, his expression unreadable. Sebastian knew the elf had intended for him to hear the approach; he had no doubt that Fenris could have ghosted in and snapped his neck had he been so inclined. The thought didn't bother him, because he trusted Fenris. He stood, dusting his hands on his trousers.

"Fenris."

"How is she?"

"She's sleeping now. She's stronger than a lot of people give her credit for. She'll get through this, with time."

Fenris opened his mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut. He turned to regard the fire, his gauntleted hands fisted at his sides. There was a silence that stretched out paper thin as Fenris relaxed his hands.

"She is…I never would have thought to use the words 'honorable' and 'mage' in the same sentence, but she proves once again that appearances can be deceiving."

"She does her best." Sebastian smiled. "She's been trying for close to a year to get you to admit that, you know."

"And I expect I will tell her. Eventually. I would ask that you let me say it in my own time, priest."

"Of course. Did you want to look in on her?"

"No, that won't be necessary. There's no comfort that I could give her." Fenris gave him a hooded look. "I trust you to take care of her. She needs you."

Sebastian nodded. "I'll do my best."

"Then that shall have to do." Fenris offered him a small smile, melting back into the darkness of the foyer. Sebastian heard the door open and shut, but only because he was listening for it.

* * *

Fenris was the first of a stream of visitors that came over the next couple of days. Aveline was next with Donnic in tow, a large basket of fruit under her arm. Celeste did seem to perk up for Aveline's sake; Sebastian had to wonder if she did it to keep Aveline from worrying more than she did. Isabela showed up sometime that afternoon, her armful of questionable reading material set to the side, but in reach if Celeste did decide to peruse it. Any reaction was preferable to the new quiet and withdrawn Hawke.

Varric came often. He sat next to Celeste on the bed speaking in a soft undertone for close to an hour, and then traipsed downstairs to play cards with Sebastian for the rest of his visit. When asked, he merely smiled and said he was telling her a story. Well-wishers sent cards and gifts, all which piled up in the foyer because neither Bodahn nor Sebastian could stomach the thought of bringing them to her.

After that first night, Sebastian slept in one of the chairs next to the fire, unwilling to leave her alone but equally unwilling to tempt fate again. She began eating at his coaxing, taking bits of food from his fingers as he spoke to her of inconsequential things. He told her of Starkhaven, his voice meandering with his memories as she soaked in the bath behind the privacy screen. As the days passed, she began showing signs of improvement. She gave thin smiles that were ghosts of the old ones. They gave him hope to see the real thing soon.

Anders showed up just after breakfast on the third day, making a show of ignoring Sebastian and his chest of clothes as he examined Celeste for signs of trauma. Sebastian did what he could to ignore Anders, but made a mild protest when he was asked to leave the room.

"You can't be serious!" Sebastian folded his arms. "I have been nothing but supportive this entire time, what could she have to tell you that she couldn't say in front of me?"

"I don't trust you to not have taken advantage of her in this delicate state," Anders said, meeting him glare for glare. "Those kinds of questions are reserved for patient/physician confidentiality."

Sebastian felt a cold knot of anger form in his chest. He started forward. "You would dare – "

"You wouldn't be offended if it weren't true," Anders countered.

"Enough." Her voice was quiet, but it stopped them in their tracks, still bristling at each other. "Sebastian has been more than a gentleman, Anders. If anyone has been out of line, it was me."

Anders gaped at her, his gaze swapping from Celeste to Sebastian as he tried to take that information in. Sebastian could feel color creeping up his neck as the mage scrutinized him, but met his gaze in steady silence. She raised a hand to her face, passing it over her eyes. "Sebastian, could I talk to Anders in private, please?"

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "As you wish. I'll be in the garden, should I prove to be trustworthy." He glared at Anders once more with this parting shot and made a less than gracious exit.

His displeasure reverberated throughout his lean frame as he marched down the stairs. He exited into the Amell family's true treasure: their private garden. A high wall with a side gate circled the property, high enough to keep curious stares out. Few noble families had enough clout in this closed-in city to afford frivolities like extra land for gardens. It was small, but boasted a variety of plants and flowers, as well as a small stone fountain that took up a corner of the garden, the rush of water making the place serene. A small patch of greenery that was well-manicured now that Celeste was here to tend it, it had grown over in the few days she'd neglected it. Careful weeding around a patch of elfroot she'd been tending had grown over, shadowing the plants.

Cambert followed at his heels, having been banished as well. He scratched the dog's ears as he sat underneath the lone tree that took up most of the space in the garden. Old and gnarled, the tree bore shining red apples that would rival most of the Chantry's yield. He debated picking one, but decided against it, more comfortable with his back against the rough bark with the dog's head in his lap.

He was furious with Anders, but he understood that the apostate would think the worst of him. He would have thought the worst of Anders had the situation been reversed. He closed his eyes and leaned back, hoping for a bit of a breeze off the ocean to waft into the garden. It wasn't yet the warmest part of the day, but he could already feel the sweat beginning on his forehead and temples, starting a slow trickle down his back. It was going to be too hot of a day to be angry at anyone for long, anyway. He tried to will away his irritation with steady breathing and prayer.

"Maker, know that I am doing the best I can with what I have. Help guide Hawke through these trials, and help me to understand how to go about…_this_." He waved his hand in an inelegant gesture in front of him. "Give me a sign that will set me on my proper path, so that I can know Your will."

An apple landed on his head.

He flinched back and whacked his head on the tree. The fruit tumbled into his lap and startled Cambert, who whuffed in annoyance and moved to a sunny spot to nap. Sebastian looked up, noticing a pair of green eyes looking down at him, peering between a pair of dirty bare feet.

"Oh, hullo, Sebastian. I didn't see you down there." She kicked her feet with cheer, delighted with her perch.

His eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Merrill? What are you doing up there?"

"Hawke said I should climb in her garden and cool my feet in her fountain instead of the Viscount's. She said it would be safer for me, but I don't see how, the Viscount's garden has many more men guarding it." Merrill bit her lip in thought. "But then again, they didn't seem too happy to see me. What are you doing? I thought Varric said you were sitting with Hawke."

"Anders is giving Celeste a checkup, and he asked me to wait outside." His lips thinned, even though he tried to hold it back.

"You don't like Anders much, do you?" she asked.

"No, Merrill, I like Anders fine, aside from a lot of choices he's made, he has the potential to be a good man."

"You mean Justice, right?"

"Yes, that's part of it." He folded his hands across his stomach and leaned back again, his gaze on the far wall. "He's clamoring for the freedom of all mages, but from what I've seen, mages haven't shown themselves to be trustworthy to use their powers like the Maker intended. Every time we turn a corner it seems as though we find another blood mage coven."

Merrill bit her lip, still swinging her feet. "Blood magic isn't bad as a whole, though. It's when people can't stop using it that they get into trouble."

Sebastian's voice was weary. "Merrill, if you try and claim that blood magic is a tool to use like any other you'll do nothing but upset Celeste. The man who killed her mother intended to use her in a blood magic ritual to resurrect his dead wife."

"But – "

"Merrill, you made a deal with a demon to get where you are. Consequences come of such a pact. Don't think that your blood will be enough to sate it, not now, not ever. Eventually, there will come a price that will be too high to pay, and you will realize this. Until then, please, just keep the subject of blood magic away from her, for my sake." His voice was polite, but held a tinge of frost in it that he had never used with her before. She was too naïve for her own good; it bordered on willful ignorance, and it was time she learned that not everyone shared her views.

Merrill fell silent, considering his words. "You know, that's part of the reason I climbed the tree instead of coming in. I didn't think she'd want to see me, y'know, after. I do worry about her, she's one of the only friends I have. And I don't want her to hate me."

"Merrill." Sebastian let out a breath, all of his ire gone. He was simply tired. Nights spent in a chair and then arguing with apostates during the day just became too much. "I'm fairly sure she doesn't hate you. She's grieving right now, and there are some things that wouldn't help the process. You should go and see her, and show her you're worried about her. It will make her feel better."

"You think so?" Merrill brightened. "I wouldn't want to intrude on her, though. I should find her a gift first, I think." She climbed up from her sitting position, still speaking to herself. She walked with incredible grace along the branches of the apple tree, hopping onto the sandstone wall that encircled the garden after only a moment's pause. She turned to Sebastian, who was watching her in amusement.

"I'll be back later, I have to get her a gift!" Merrill gave a cheerful wave and hopped down from the wall. He chuckled and shook his head, closing his eyes again. Merrill would be all right; she would find the right path, with guidance.

Most tasks around the estate were taken care of with efficiency by the dwarves, and his help was superfluous. He settled himself against the tree, not knowing if there was anything he could do other than wait for Anders to finish. It galled him a little, but by now it was too hot to argue, or even muster up any vitriol for the apostate. There was just the hint of a breeze coming off the ocean, and it teased the hair at the nape of his neck as he half-dozed, unused to being idle. A rustle at the gate had him opening his eyes to see if it was a curious onlooker or an actual visitor.

"Figures three days out of the Chantry would make you soft, lad," came a voice from the gate, rough with the Starkhaven brogue. Sebastian sat up, stretching, the rolled to his feet in a smooth motion to let Roark in. The man looked too big to be allowed in the tiny space but he moved with care, stepping around the plots of herbs and medicinal plants Celeste had planted. He carried a small yellow rosebush in his large hands; the pot it rested in was circled with a green ribbon tied in a clumsy bow.

Sebastian grinned in spite of himself as Roark set the rosebush down. "I thought you didn't tend to people's earthly gardens?"

"Th' lady's not well, and I thought I'd bring her a gift, is all," Roark replied with a bland smile. "If I happen to weed her herb patch while I'm here, that's just me being neighborly."

Sebastian threw back his head and laughed in genuine happiness to see the gardener. He clapped the big man on the shoulder. "Well, I suppose I should help you get it in the ground, considering I've been lazing about making sure she keeps herself fed and taken care of."

He fetched a shovel and bucket from the shadowed eave where the door to the kitchen was, joining Roark next to the fountain. There was plenty of sunlight for the rosebush there, and so they worked side by side in companionable silence to get it planted. Sebastian felt the rest of his stress at the day slip away, glad to be doing something with his hands. He gave the roses a final tap around the roots with his trowel, then gave them some water and sat back on his heels.

Roark began weeding Celeste's herbs. When Sebastian joined him, he finally spoke.

"Did you and th' lady Hawke have your talk?"

"Not yet." He frowned. "I was trying to, but…"

He made a vague, frustrated gesture with his trowel.

"Mm, I see." Roark nodded. "Real life does tend to intrude. Good on you for helping her out while she needs you, lad."

"Anders doesn't seem to think so."

"The blonde fellah? He's a decent enough man, but he's not got his priorities straight. I spoke with him once, when he set my sister's leg. He seemed kind of resolved to fighting a losing battle." Roark dumped a handful of weeds in the bucket, wiping sweat off his brow. He left a dirt streak, but Sebastian imagined he was just as filthy. His next sentence was casual, but came as a punch to the gut. "Grand Cleric Elthina asked after you, too."

He stiffened. He hadn't considered how this would look to the Grand Cleric. He hadn't considered anything at all, except for Celeste.

"She asked after me, or summoned me?" he asked, his tone neutral.

"Sounded like a summons, lad."

Sebastian flinched. That was not a good sign. He was, at the very least, going to get a stern talking-to. He felt like he was twelve years old all over again. He heaved a sigh. "Did she say when I should go and see her?"

"It was my understanding I was to bring you back with me." Roark dusted off his hands, sitting back to admire their handiwork.

Sebastian ran a hand through his hair. He could not ignore a summons from the Grand Cleric. To do so would be a grave insult, and she would only come and find him. She'd done so before.

"Dinna fash yourself," Roark said, slipping a little farther back into his Starkhaven mannerisms. "I doubt the Grand Cleric is going to order an Exalted March on you because you've been away a few days."

"I hope that's true," Sebastian said. He stood, knuckling the small of his back. "Let me wash up and we'll go straight away."

* * *

The Chantry was quiet as he slipped past the large double doors into the cathedral. Cool shadows washed over him, a relief from the summer heat, and he paused to let his eyes adjust. The scent of incense wafted into his nose, and he felt something in his soul quiet as he looked on the statue of Andraste once again. Her eyes pierced him, and for once, he did not waver.

He did not linger long in the cathedral, just long enough to touch his brow in reverence to the cool stone at Andraste's feet.

The Grand Cleric was a firm believer in a life of austere worship, and her living space was as Spartan as his dormitory had been, the sparse cell containing her desk, bed, and bookshelves. She set aside the manuscript she was reading at his soft knock and rose from her desk, coming around to greet him. She raised her hand over his head in benediction. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, resisting the urge to shift like a boy caught sipping sacramental wine.

"You asked to see me, Grand Cleric?"

"Yes, Sebastian, I did. Please, have a seat." She gestured to one of the straight backed wooden chairs that had been in front of her desk for as long as he could remember. She sat back down and clasped her hands in front of her on the desk as he sat opposite her.

"You've been spending a lot of time at the Hawke estate, Sebastian. Is the Lady Hawke feeling any better?"

_Better to jump in without preamble, I suppose._ "She is feeling better, yes. She has taken the death of her mother extremely hard, but I am seeing a slow recovery."

Elthina nodded, as though she expected the answer. "I understand you two have a very close friendship. Are you sure that is wise, Sebastian, considering your vows?"

He swallowed, trying to come up with an answer. "Grand Cleric, I – "

She smiled at him, laugh lines in her eyes and at the corners of her mouth becoming more prominent. "Sebastian, I was young once. I know that your worldly responsibilities have changed. No more are you simply a lay brother of the chantry. You are now responsible as the only living heir to Starkhaven."

"I – yes, I am. I still have not traced the people who hired the Flint Company. When I do, I will turn them over to the proper authorities for judgment." He leaned back, his hands on his knees. "I have a duty to my family to see that the culprits are punished."

"A year ago, you would have torn the city apart to discover the identity of these men. What seems to have changed?" She quirked a brow at him.

_Hawke is what changed._ "I don't honestly know, Grand Cleric. I feel more at peace now."

"Perhaps the Lady Hawke is better for you than I'd hoped. She seems to be a stabilizing influence on you, Sebastian."

The Grand Cleric was far from heartless. She helped him when he was a boy, and now he stood on the brink of another decision that will mark the rest of his life. He felt he could trust her with this, if nothing else.

"I consider her a dear friend. She has proven to be a woman of upstanding moral character." The hands on his knees clenched into fists.

"When one has served as long as I have, one learns about inner turmoil first hand. I can see it in your face, Sebastian. I warned you that the chaste life of a brother was not for everyone." She tapped her thumbs together, her amusement at his squirming hidden behind a serene expression. "I will not hold you to your vows if this is truly what you want."

He looked up. This wasn't happening. He tried to squash the rush of hope that burned in his chest like a banked coal. "Your grace?"

"Sebastian, I know you, far too well to be fooled by a contrite expression. You ache to help your people, and if you were to step up to become their Prince, you would have duties that preclude your vows all together. 'Princes aren't made for chastity', if I recall your words correctly." He felt color creeping up into his neck.

He swallowed. He wasn't ready to admit this to himself, much less the Grand Cleric. "I have been praying for guidance, your grace. I do not know yet where my path will lead."

"Then take all the time you need. Know that the Chantry remains open to you should you decide to stay with us. Each of us must choose their own path, and I've no wish to see you blown about in a storm just because you feel beholden to me or the Chantry." She rose, moving around the desk to place a warm hand on his shoulder. "Do what you feel is best for _you_, Sebastian. The Chantry will abide, as we always have."

He let out a breath. "You shame me, as always, your grace. I did not expect you to understand. I had forgotten that you were one of the ones who understood the best."

She patted his shoulder. "You're impulsive, much like I was at that age. I have tried to remember this."

"I – thank you, your grace."

"Any time, Sebastian. I am always here if you need me, you know this." She blessed him as he rose to leave.

He stopped again at the statue of Andraste and pressed his forehead to the cool stone.

"Thank you."

* * *

His walk back to the Amell family home was punctuated by his light step. Were he honest with himself, he had not felt this good in years. He had been content to know that the Chantry was his place, but now he could say that his future was his own. His head spun with the possibilities.

He was brought up short by the duty to his people in Starkhaven. He had to think of them first, and the thought sobered him. Strangely, the responsibility didn't bother him much. He was no stranger to it now, and life in the Chantry had taught him humility and his limits. He knew now when to ask for help, and when to stand on his own.

He would not be satisfied until she had no less than a Prince, and she would help him get there.

He entered the foyer of her house, rolling his shoulders as he tried to tamp down on this new found sense of self. Anders was seated in a chair on the lower level. It looked like he was waiting for him, for he looked up when Sebastian closed the door behind him.

"I thought you said you'd be in the garden?" Anders said, rising to face him.

"I was summoned by the Grand Cleric. One does not usually ignore her requests. She comes to you if you do." He gave a faint smile.

"I owe you an apology," Anders said, shrugging as if he knew how lame this sounded. He seemed agitated, more with himself than anything else. Sebastian crooked an eyebrow and folded his arms, unsure how to react.

Anders was doing anything but looking him in the face. "I…look. I shouldn't have accused you of taking advantage. That was crude and uncalled for, not when you've been so helpful to her. The fact that you stopped her where I might not have, no, probably _wouldn't_ have, makes you a man with ungodly patience. Also, she said she'd set me on fire if I didn't apologize."

There was a wry grin on his face when he said that, and Sebastian got a glimpse of the man he had been before Justice, or it seemed like it. He seemed years younger, much surer of himself before the grin faded and Anders simply looked exhausted.

Sebastian nodded. "I have not been as gracious to you as I could have been, either. I never got a chance to apologize for what I said before you left for the Deep Roads, and that was unkind of me. I'm sorry, Anders, truly."

The silence was awkward, and stretched taut between them. Anders finally sighed and extended a hand to him, almost as if it were against his better judgment.

"Truce?"

Sebastian took his hand and shook it, feeling the mage grip his hand in return. "I wasn't aware we were at war."

"Sanctimonious prig."

"Preachy busybody."

It was a tense moment, and Sebastian wondered if he saw a flicker of blue in the amber depths of Anders's eyes. Anders suddenly gave a bark of laughter and released his hand. They grinned at each other, a small measure of peace achieved between them.

"You've done a good job with her. She's eating better now, and responding to conversation. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it, and she ought to recover." Anders ran a hand through his hair. "I need to get back to my rounds at the clinic."

"Have you eaten today, Anders?" Sebastian looked at the apostate with a critical gaze. Even with the bulky coat, he looked too thin for his own good.

"I grabbed breakfast before I left. I'm sure there's something at the clinic if I rummage." Anders smiled. "Don't go all mother hen on me, please. I don't like you _that_ much."

Sebastian snorted and placed a hand over his chest in mock sorroe. "If you die of starvation, who will mock the Maker in my presence?"

Anders just shook his head and made his way to the cellars. He stopped Bodahn and asked for something to eat before he left, however. Sebastian nodded at Bodahn as he climbed the now familiar stairs to the second floor.

Celeste was sitting in her chair by the fireplace, reading. When he knocked on the door, she looked up and gave him a small smile. He felt his heart lift a little more. He made his way across the room and extended his hand to her.

"Take a walk with me?"

She looked at him, puzzled, but put her hand in his and allowed herself to be pulled into a standing position. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and they made their way downstairs and into the brightness of the afternoon, Bodahn closing the door behind them with a wave.


	9. Sunlight

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Nine: Sunlight

* * *

Hightown was abuzz with the daily business of living and he breathed deep, taking in the slight tang of salty air that was devoid of the other…interesting smells of the docks. The day was hot, but the breeze coming in off the ocean was pleasant enough so as not to drive business to a crawl. Hawkers cried their wares, enticing buyers with promises of fine product, and they lingered at a few stalls, browsing as they strolled through the square.

They kept pace with each other, meandering through the stalls of the Hightown marketplace. He was pleased to see that the dark shadows under her eyes were getting smaller, and the color returned to her face. Anders had told him to keep doing what he had been, so they ambled through the crowd, in no real hurry to get to any destination. Her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow was a promise, one that set his heart to pounding against his ribs every time she shifted and reminded him that it was there.

She was quiet but interested, smiling at the vendors she knew. They made an effort to encourage that smile; the rumors of Leandra's death had spread like wildfire in the wake of their bloody return to Hightown mere days ago. She was known as a fair bargainer, and while some of the vendors might tease her that she was beggaring them, they did bring out their better wares to show her. She was generous with her coin and paid for quality, and merchants did not forget that. She spent her time chatting with them, confirming orders for the week and paying her tabs. Celeste seemed to liven with the thoughts of business clouding her mind instead of her grief, and Sebastian was glad he had thought to keep her busy.

She stopped to speak to a clothier, a thin woman who reminded Sebastian very much of a stork. She was tall and thin, with a long nose that was straight and beakish. The woman bustled forward to speak to Celeste, her grey-streaked hair tied back in a severe bun. Heaps of silks, linens, and muslin stood on racks for inspection, fluttering in the breeze. All of it was high quality, with good dye, he could tell. He hadn't had an eye for clothing in years, but even then, he had a feeling the dyes would not dare run in the face of such a proprietor.

"Mistress Hawke. You are out and about after all. May I say I am sorry to hear about your dear mother? Leandra was a dear friend of mine, you understand, and she did business with me for years before she left Kirkwall." She gave a small smile that did not reach her eyes. Sebastian doubted her sincerity in the matter.

Celeste nodded, a small frown line appearing between her brows. "Yes, serrah, I was aware of your friendship to our family, and your condolences are appreciated."

"I hate to bring this up in the face of your recent bereavement, but your mother had ordered several new frocks…"

Celeste's face took on a pinched look, and he saw the sorrow descend on her face again as she moved to the back of the stall to cancel the orders her mother had placed. It was also necessary to negotiate with the clothier to buy back the clothing that was sold. He could have throttled the woman for bringing it up this early. He ran a hand through his hair, agitated and unable to fix the gaffe.

A fruit vendor was plying her trade next to the clothing stall. Heaps of pears, berries, persimmons and other exotic wares were piled on top of ice to keep them fresh. He was struck by sudden inspiration and stepped over to speak to the elf manning the fruit stall. She smiled and greeted him as he dug into his belt pouch for his purse. The fruit was in better condition than he had expected, considering it had traveled by ship from Antiva and Orlais. He pointed to several items and she gathered them for him, wrapping them in a square of silk and tying it into a bindle. As he doled out the coin, he mused he was paying her a little more than was normal for the quality of the fruit. He decided it was worth it as he saw plump pears and fresh strawberries go into the bundle.

Celeste looked at him in puzzlement as he turned back to her. He took her hand again, shaking his head at her, a smile playing across his face. They continued through the market, enjoying the day. Sebastian used his light step to his advantage, making little side trips while she was distracted at one vendor or another, only to reappear when she was ready to move on. He returned the first time with a basket that began to fill with small treats as often as he could slip away. The bindle of fruit sat on top so she couldn't see the contents, and he knew he had her interest when she kept trying to sneak peeks into the basket. He kept it well out of her reach, making sure to lace his fingers with hers.

"Your curiosity is insatiable," he said, hiding the basket behind his back as they walked.

"Of course it is. You keep wandering off when I talk to someone. I want to know what's going on." She was smiling, though, and that was what mattered.

"Settle yourself, miss. You'll find out soon enough."

He tucked her hand into his elbow again, steering her back toward her home. She managed to keep herself contained long enough to be led into the alley next to her house and the back gate that led into the garden. He let her go then, setting his basket down beside the tree so he could latch the gate behind them.

"Are you going to tell me what this is all about?" Her lips were quirked into her familiar smile, and Sebastian could have cheered. Instead, he pulled a folded square of cloth from the basket and spread it under the tree, smoothing it as best he could.

"I figured after spending the day talking business, you'd be hungry. Walking the markets leaves me starving, when I take the time to do it. So I took the liberty." He held out his hand to her, and she took it, settling on a corner of the blanket while he dug into the basket for the rest of his haul.

He undid the bindle of fruit, revealing a wealth of pears, grapes, pomegranates and strawberries, all still in excellent shape despite being carried around most of the afternoon. A bottle of cider, a loaf of crusty bread and a small round of sharp, fragrant cheese joined the fruit, much to her apparent delight.

"A picnic? Really?"

He gave her an oblique smile. "Sometimes one gets stifled sitting in alehouses. I, for one, would rather sit out in the beauty the Maker granted us and enjoy my food."

He settled himself against the tree, laying out the food next to him, and was pleased when she joined him. She leaned back against the rough bark, relaxing as sunlight drifted through the leaves of the tree and dappled everything with lazy pinpoints of light. She kicked off her boots, wriggling her toes as she stretched.

He had never appreciated how quiet the garden actually was until he'd sat there earlier in the afternoon. The sounds of the marketplace melted away, becoming a low hum in the background, a pleasant shirr of white noise that mingled with the trickle of water from the fountain. The spicy, woody scent of the earthroot he and Roark had weeded wafted and mingled with the roses and the other flowers, somehow sharpening his appetite. He pulled out his belt knife and ran it along the wax seal on the bottle of cider, peeling it away and using his thumbs to work the cork free. It came free with a small pop, adding the scent of mulling spice to the air. He handed her the bottle.

He dug in the basket for the cups he'd bought and turned back to her just in time to see her lowering the bottle from her lips with a mischievous grin. That alone was worth the price of the cups. He put them back and took a drink from the bottle himself, the sharp, crisp flavor of the cider welcome refreshment. She raised her eyebrows at him and he shrugged.

"It tastes just as good from the bottle, why dirty the cups?"

She laughed, picking up a pear and using her belt knife to slice it into sections, seeding it neatly. She bit into a slice, chewing with a thoughtful expression. He busied himself with slicing into the cheese and tearing off a hunk of the bread for her.

"If I didn't know better, Sebastian, I'd think you were trying to court me." Her toes were fighting a losing battle with themselves, one foot twisting over the other as she looked away. She toyed with a pear slice, worrying the peel free with her thumbnail.

He leaned back against the tree again, a handful of strawberries making their way slowly from his fingers to his mouth as he tried to find the right words to say. He'd been a rake, to be sure, but he'd never tried to win a woman's affections before. They'd fallen in his lap because he'd had money and a title. Now he didn't have much of either, a stipend from the Chantry and the heir to a throne that was still undergoing a power struggle. This was new ground and his steps would be shaky, if not outright wrong.

"What…if I said it was?" he asked, his voice quiet. He chanced a look at her through his peripheral vision; she had frozen much like a doe that had heard a twig snap. She looked ready to either bolt or throw the pear slice at him. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the rush of water.

"That's not funny, Sebastian." She drew her knees up to her chest, cradling them with her arms. "If you meant to make a joke, it was a cruel one."

"I wasn't joking." He turned to meet her eyes. She was frowning, the worry line between her eyebrows a sure indication she was not pleased. "I spoke with Grand Cleric Elthina today, about reclaiming Starkhaven. She has agreed to release me from my vows if I intend to take the throne."

"Just like that?" The worry line was gone, replaced with mild surprise. "I wasn't aware the Chantry let go of their sworn members so easily."

"Most members of the Chantry aren't expected to rule a kingdom, the Divine Justinia herself notwithstanding," he replied with a slight shrug. "If I claim the principality, I'll have to produce heirs eventually. None of my cousins are remotely capable of ruling. Thanks to thin bloodlines, they have only a spurious claim to the throne at best."

His smile was wry as he toyed with the stem of a strawberry.

"So this is all a part of your master plan to retake your kingdom? Have an heir ready to go before you even begin military maneuvers?" She scowled, shredding the skin of the pear slice she'd been toying with. "You'll be sorely disappointed. Most people don't take kindly to mages in power."

"What? No, that's not what I meant at all! I – what I meant to say was that – oh, I'm a total clod." He buried his face in his hands for a moment, trying to regain his train of thought. He looked up and met her eyes with an unsteady heartbeat, bright blue to dark green.

"If I'd only wanted you to be an accessory to help me retake the throne, I'd never be worthy of you. You are a remarkable woman, Celeste. I could not even imagine attempting this without you. When this is all over, I'd like you by my side, if you'll have me."

She was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was pained. "You know it can't happen like you want it to, Sebastian. I'm an apostate, an illegal mage. You think your enemies won't use that against you? Not to mention the Chantry. We'd have an Exalted March on our doorstep."

"I will take that chance, and deal with it when it comes," he said, his voice full of the conviction he felt that this was _right_. He reached for her hand, twining his fingers with hers, reveling in how warm they were. "_We_ will deal with it when it comes."

He stroked his thumb over her knuckles before pressing a kiss to her fingertips and returning her hand to her. It felt good to say it after keeping it bottled up for so long, no matter her answer. He was content to sit there with her until she made up her mind. He clasped his hands over his stomach and leaned back, looking up at the pinpoints of light through the leaves.

A cool breeze brushed against his cheek, and he looked over. Celeste held another piece of her pear up to her lips and blew on it, the air crystalizing around the fruit as it chilled. He watched, fascinated, as small crystals of ice formed on the fruit, coaxed there by her will. She leaned over, the pear slice dangling from her fingertips as she offered it to him.

"My father taught Bethany and me this. It's a way to focus your power, and it teaches you control. It takes a lot of effort to concentrate and get this just right." He felt the pear brush against his lips, pleasantly cold, and he opened his mouth to accept it. It was crisp and chewy, not frozen through as he thought it might be. Her fingers ghosted across his lips for the briefest of seconds before she withdrew her hand, leaving a faint tingle behind.

She picked up another piece of pear and chilled it the same way before speaking again. "Sometimes I wish I were normal. A normal woman could accept this for what it was and not have to weigh the outcomes based on whether or not Templars might catch her in a few weeks, even years. I could kiss you without remorse, because if I do, there's not the fear that you'll die too, and it will be my fault."

"Celeste." He shifted on the blanket so that he was closer, reaching out to cup her face in his palms. His thumbs brushed her cheeks, trying to wipe away the despair he saw in her face.

"It's not fair," she said. "In another life, I would have been very happy."

"Then I'll have to outdo myself to make you happy in this one."

Their lips met, soft and slow as the murmur of the marketplace outside the garden walls. He breathed her in, the scent that made her unique, tasted the spice of the cider and the tart afterbite of the pear on her lips. Her eyes slid closed and she leaned against him as he rained gentle kisses along her cheeks and eyelids. Her hands fisted in his shirt, and he moved back to her mouth, tracing the velvet softness of her with his tongue. Her lips parted for him upon his invitation, and he deepened the kiss, sliding his fingers up her cheeks to tangle in her hair as he tilted her head to grant him better access.

He explored her with lazy fascination, unable to bring himself to push this. Breathy sips of air were not enough, however. They separated, and he rested his forehead on hers, their noses touching. She was smiling, her lips rosy and looking thoroughly kissed, and her palms rested flat on his chest, where he was sure she could feel his heart pounding. He pulled his fingers from her hair, reveling in the way the strands slid across his fingertips and placed his hands over hers.

"I would go to the ends of Thedas and back to see you happy," he said, squeezing her fingers. "If this is what you want, I am yours for as long as you will have me. But I will give you no less than a prince, for that is what you deserve."

"Are you sure, Sebastian?" She still bore that smile, but now it was tinged with worry. "Don't break your vows for just the thought of being with me. If this goes sour – "

"Then I will have been happy while it lasts. And I will still be a ruler to my people, albeit a little wiser. The Chantry made me a man, and that's the truth of it, but you make me want to be a _good_ man. Don't see shadows where there are none, sweetling." He brought her hand to his lips again and kissed her fingers, settling her against him. "We will make this work, whatever the odds."

She let out a small sigh as she relaxed against him, and he knew she'd belonged there from the start. He nuzzled into the hair at the crown of her head and kissed her again, tangling his fingers with hers as the rest of the afternoon passed them by.

* * *

Sebastian sighed as he penned another letter to the Viscount. The first tentative advances toward Dumar had been rebuffed by his seneschal, Bran. Sebastian held a deep and abiding dislike for the man, as much as he'd tried to be polite. Bran was brusque, tart, and held himself in estimation far above his station. He'd even tried to give Celeste the cold shoulder when she had asked after the Viscount's son, which had all three males behind her bristling. She'd put him in his place by not only bringing back Saemus, but by killing most of the Winters that were hunting the young man. The look on the seneschal's face had been worth the endeavor, all of them had agreed.

Sebastian himself could not reach Viscount Dumar without an appointment, and so he penned a formal request, couching it in terms of a visiting emissary. He needed military aid to retake Starkhaven, not only because it was his birthright, but because he was hearing disturbing reports that the current regent was his cousin, Thomas Vael. Thomas had a cruel streak in him, and Sebastian worried about the people under his care. He also knew that Thomas would not give up the seat if he walked in to claim it. Such a foolish act would likely leave him full of the red and blue fletched arrows that the militia was known for.

His last few letters had gone unanswered, and he knew he was asking much from a man whose city was already besieged with Qunari. Tension in the city was high, for certain with those who were faithful to the Maker's teachings. He had seen dwarven explosives once, and he imagined the resulting conflict would have the same effect if things were allowed to go that far. He gnawed in absent thought on the shaved quill that he was using, heedless of the ink that was smearing on his lips. He was frustrated, and his usual polite tone wasn't getting him anywhere in the red tape that was Kirkwall's bed of politics.

He chewed on the end of the quill again, his thoughts wandering far from the Viscount and to Celeste. He was seated at her writing desk in the Amell estate, Cambert napping at his feet. Celeste had insisted he stay with her, clearing out a guest room for him to sleep in. At first he'd protested, but he knew he couldn't stay at the Chantry, not with all that had happened. As much as he liked and respected Grand Cleric Elthina, he was loath to infringe on her hospitality. Celeste had shaken her head at his reluctance, pointing out that both Bodahn and Sandal were living there too, so there wasn't really any threat of a scandal. He had tried to explain how much the noble families would gossip, and she'd silenced him the best way she knew how.

Once she ended the kiss that had sent him reeling, she had given him a wicked smile. "Let them talk. It's none of their sodding business anyway."

They hadn't progressed very far from there, because real life had intruded. Several letters had arrived for her in the following days, and she had been busy running errands all over the city. They spent what time together they could, but the days were eaten up with him pacing the waiting area in the Keep, hopeful that the Viscount would see him soon.

Days had turned into weeks, weeks had turned into two months and the situation had thrown their relationship into an awkward holding pattern that he was reluctant to break. He was very aware of her, and how he wanted to progress, but there never seemed to be a right time. Celeste came home exhausted most days, too tired to do much more than smile at him and kiss him goodnight. For now, he was content with it, larger problems sapping his attention and hers.

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, the tension in his neck causing him to wince. Paperwork had never been his forte, even when he was called to the archives to take his turn at the writing desk.

Small, warm hands slid up the sides of his neck, rubbing at the muscles there. He gave a low groan and opened his eyes to see Celeste standing over him, her lips pursed as she read his missive.

"That's the third quill of mine you've chewed to ribbons in your wake, Sebastian."

"Hm?" He glanced at the shredded quill and flushed, his face guilty. "I'm sorry."

"No luck again today, I take it?"

"None at all. I think Bran likes watching those who want an audience squirm."

"He is a bit of a sadist. Lucky for you we saved the Viscount's son, then." She grinned and tossed a missive onto the desk, the Viscount's seal already broken. "He wants to see me, so we can kill two birds with one stone."

His face lit up. "Oh, I can't wait to see Bran's face when he sees this. He likely already knows you're coming, but having to let me pass will more than stick in his craw."

"Sebastian Vael, are you being petty?" Her tone was amused as she trailed fingers along the nape of his neck, running her fingers through the short curls there. He sighed and sat forward, allowing her better access.

"If it means you keep doing that, you can think whatever you like." She poked his ribs instead, making him yelp and shift out of the chair to his feet. He caught her hands and held them far from his torso, using his longer reach to plant an inky kiss on her nose before releasing her. She laughed and wiped the black off her nose with her handkerchief.

"Ugh, I think I threw up in my mouth a little bit," Isabela said, sauntering in without knocking as usual. She flashed Sebastian a grin and looped her arm through Hawke's, tugging her away to the study. "Borrowing her, will return her in a few moments in relatively the same condition."

Something about Isabela's stride made him pause as he watched them go. She seemed almost…hunted. He frowned, but went to seek out some water to get the ink out of his mouth.

* * *

The line to see the Viscount was the same as always, nobles with some grievance or another sitting in chairs and chatting while casting dark looks at the landing where Seneschal Bran stood, his hands behind his back. He was looking smug today, and Sebastian snorted at the thought. He, Celeste, Varric and Isabela climbed the stairs to the Viscount's office, presenting themselves as protocol demanded.

"Mistress Hawke." Bran kept his lip from curling as he looked her up and down. "I am going to assume you got the Viscount's letter."

"I did." Celeste's tone was cool and formal. "He said he needed to see me about a private matter."

"Yes, this way, if you please. Your…companions can wait here."

Celeste held up a hand. "Whatever has to be discussed, I would have my companions hear it too. It is only fair when they'll be putting their lives on the line, the same as me."

Bran snorted. "Of all the impertinent – "

"You overstep, seneschal. The letter was addressed to me, from the Viscount. You did not put your seal on the missive. Your name was mentioned in passing, in that I should speak to you before addressing his grace. I have spoken to you, serrah, and now I am going to address his grace, _with_ my companions." She swept past him without another word, Varric smirking at Bran's open-mouthed stare.

Isabela gave a throaty laugh. "Poor baby. Come see me later and mama will kiss your pride all better." She ran her hand down his chest and to his groin, where she squeezed. Bran gave a hiss and slapped at her hand, which only made her laugh again and slip in the door behind the others. Sebastian bit his lip to keep the grin off his face as he followed, closing the door behind him.

Viscount Dumar had always been a fair man, as long as Sebastian had known him. He strove for the middle ground, for moderation in all things. It would be his undoing if the current situation was not resolved. He stood, straight-backed and proud for a man in his late fifties, gazing out his study window at the docks down below. The Qunari compound wasn't visible, Sebastian realized, but the Viscount's eyes seemed drawn to the root of his problem, and he turned from the window with reluctance.

Celeste showed him unusual respect, crossing her arms over her chest and giving him a brief bow, a gesture that had carried over from her native land. "Your grace, you asked to speak with me?"

"I did. You have done me a great service already, rescuing my son from the Wounded Coast as you did. I am afraid I must ask for your services once more. My son, Saemus, has run away again, this time to the compound. He wrote me a very lengthy letter, stating he was going to join the Qun." The Viscount's face twisted in worry, and Sebastian could see that he had lost sleep over the matter. Dark circles made the man seem much older, more careworn.

"I tried to step in once before, you remember." Celeste frowned, her eyes flicking out the window towards the Qunari compound. "I did say that this was his choice."

"So you did, and your influence is partially the reason I would have you find him. At best, he would be used as an example by my political enemies, who would say that the Qunari now influence my rule. At worst, I will lose my son. Whether to the Qun or to a lynch mob, that outcome is unacceptable." Dumar pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger, sighing. "I am asking you, as a favor to me, to convince him to return."

"A favor to the Viscount could put the ball more firmly in your court concerning the Templars, Hawke," Varric murmured.

"Agreed. Friends in high places are almost as good as friends in low ones, depending on the favor." Isabela said, but her frown was telling. "But I'd prefer to not be on this little expedition, if you please."

Celeste nodded at the pirate. "I can ask Aveline to go, Isabela, no worries."

She turned to the Viscount. "We will find your son, your grace. The Arishok is an…honorable opponent, if nothing else. He will tell us the truth."

"You have had dealings with the Qunari before, and so I leave this to you, Serrah Hawke." The Viscount passed a hand over his eyes. "Please return my son to me."

She bowed again. "I'll go at once."

* * *

A/n: I have the dumb. That should have fixed it. Sorry for the confusion.


	10. Submit

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Ten: Submit

* * *

The trek to the docks was uneventful, even with the subtle pressure of time being lost pushing them forward. Celeste walked with purpose, her strides long and firm as she approached the Qunari standing guard at the gates of the compound. True to her word, Isabela left them before reaching the docks, speaking in a whisper to Celeste and receiving a brief nod in return. The smuggler vanished, her light step making it near impossible for Sebastian to track her.

Thoughts of Isabela fled much like the woman herself as they approached the Arishok. Sebastian had not been with them when Celeste had spoken with him before, and now the sight of the largest Qunari he had ever seen left him mute. Taut musculature covered a heavy frame, and though he remained seated on his bench at their approach, he seemed ready to strike if the notion took him.

Reddened tattoos scrolled their way across his arms, chest and neck, a stark contrast to the dusky gray skin. He seemed unbothered by the weight of the huge horns that rose from his forehead, gilt and curving backward over his hair and the golden earcuffs he wore. His gaze was uninterested in any of them, save for Hawke.

He tilted his head to the side; whether a gesture of respect or interest, Sebastian couldn't tell.

"Serrah Hawke. Why do you return?" His voice was without malice.

"We seek the return of the boy, Saemus, Arishok." Celeste was calm, as reasonable as she always was. Sebastian had to admire her bravery; not many people would face down the Arishok as if chatting about the weather. "His father is worried about him."

"He should not be. The boy is _viddathari _now. He is no longer the Viscount's son. _Viddathari_ give up their lives for the certainty only Qunari know." The Arishok rested his forearms on his knees, his gaze steady.

"Be that as it may, Arishok, the boy is the Viscount's son in the eyes of the populace. It will stir already muddy waters if you keep him. Radical elements of the Chantry are already up in arms about the converts you keep, and the Viscount's enemies believe you seek to influence him through his son. Surely you can see the political implications?" Celeste folded her arms, meeting the stare with an even look of her own.

"The _bas_ may think what they will. While the Qun may demand that advantage, I do not. He volunteered to be educated. He is not my prisoner." The Arishok narrowed his eyes in a way that made Sebastian itch to reach for an arrow. "For four years we have made no threat, and fanatics have lined up to hate us simply because we exist. Despite lies and fear, _bas_ still beg me to let them come to the Qun. They hunger for purpose."

He gestured with one of his large, clawed hands, sweeping the breadth of the compound. "The son has made his choice. You will not deny him that."

"That was not my intent, Arishok. His father wishes to speak with him, nothing more."

"Then ask the Viscount why he sends both you and a letter. The son has left to speak to the father at the Chantry. One last, pointless, appeal."

Varric's eyes narrowed. "The Viscount doesn't strike me as a man to get the Chantry involved in his affairs, especially one as delicate as this."

"He wouldn't," Aveline said. "I would have known of any orders to escort the Viscount to the Chantry, and there were none."

"I think I have a hunch as to who wrote the letter." Celeste frowned. "I hate to say it, but it sounds like Sister Petrice is up to her old antics."

"Mother Petrice?" Sebastian felt his breath catch. He had seen the revered mother about, but she had spent much of his time at the Chantry doing various good works about Lowtown and the Docks. She came in for vespers and went to her rooms after evening meals without much of a word to anyone. She was a pleasant woman, if quiet. "What is the meaning of this, Celeste?"

"I didn't tell you, did I? I'm sorry, Sebastian." She looked at Varric, having an unspoken conversation with the dwarf before looking back to him. "Before I left for the Deep Roads, there was a note from Sister Petrice. She wanted to free a Qunari mage, a _Saarebas_, from the city. She asked me to escort him through the Undercity tunnels. It turned out to be a ruse from her end. She hoped that the Qunari would kill me and make me a martyr in the Maker's name."

Her smile was strained. "Fortunately, I'm a lot more resilient than I look."

Varric snorted. "But that wasn't the last of her, was it? When we went to go talk to Elthina about the templars who had gone rogue, she stepped in and delivered her own lackey up to cover her arse. She came out clean as a whistle, but we know the deck was stacked against us."

Sebastian could not help the fists that his hands made. He frowned at them both. "I cannot believe you both would implicate a _revered mother_ in unlawful activities. This is shameful."

"Sebastian, she told me that she hoped I would be martyred to spark hostility between Kirkwall and the Qunari. She said that because I wasn't well known in the city, no one would care, but it would cause the refugees to cry out to be avenged." Celeste shook her head and turned back to the Arishok, who had a faint air of annoyance about him because of their side discussion. "We'll go and find Saemus, although I cannot promise his father will understand."

"It will have to be enough," he said, sitting straighter in his chair. "If she has threatened another under my command again, there is only one response. This offense will have an answer, Hawke. I will be watching."

The Arishok stood, turning his back to the group in obvious dismissal as he walked back to the small shaded area where he slept. Celeste took it as her cue to leave and ushered the group out of the compound, Sebastian still fuming about the implied insult to Mother Petrice.

He waited until they were out of the compound before grabbing her hand and tugging her into a shadowed side street. Aveline and Varric stood at the mouth of the alley, their posture nonchalant; he was grateful for the privacy.

"Are you positive that Mother Petrice said those things to you?" he asked.

"If I weren't sure, I wouldn't be standing here. And if you hadn't been off sulking, you would have seen the rogue templar slaughter four bound, helpless Qunari." She shrugged her hand out of his grasp to place them on her hips. "I have never lied to you before, Sebastian, and I don't intend on starting."

He realized she was right. She had always been honest with him, but this accusation made his gut churn. He resolved to trust her. When she looked to him, her eyebrow raised in question, he brushed a thumb over her lips.

"You shame me, Celeste." His voice was soft, most of the anger directed toward himself now. "I know you would not lie to me. I cannot see Mother Petrice as you have painted her, though. We will simply have to get to the bottom of this."

He glanced down the alley to make sure that Varric and Aveline still had their backs turned, then brought his lips to hers in a quiet apology. She smiled against his mouth, taking his hand in hers again.

"We should get to the Chantry."

"Yes. This should be resolved as quickly as possible, for the good of all."

* * *

The sun was setting as they reached the Chantry, bathing the huge building in shadows that Sebastian couldn't help but picture as ominous. Something in the air made him uneasy, and he kept his hand off his bow only with effort. Vespers had come and gone; there were a few straggling worshippers enjoying the cooling evening on the grounds, but none were near the doors as the group made their way to the door of the main cathedral.

The scent of incense and candle wax did not comfort him this evening. Flickering shadows in the nave writhed like living things as they paced through the darkened wooden pews. The dais drew his attention as he looked around. The candles should have been extinguished by now, as the service should have long been over. Instead, they pooled light around a figure on his knees in front of the statue of the Andraste. His back was to the stairs, but the shock of unruly black hair gave the man away.

Saemus.

Sebastian knew he wasn't mistaken when he realized that it Saemus; he'd spent the last two months whiling away the hours in conversation with him. He'd found Saemus to be an intelligent young man, if desperate to force his father's hand on the Qunari issue. He had provided interesting insight to the Qun and why the Qunari behaved as they did. Saemus was not interested in returning to the Maker, despite the talks they had about religion.

Sebastian frowned. Something was very wrong here.

They climbed the stairs to the dais, the incense no longer masking the metallic tang of blood in the air. Celeste approached Saemus, her hand out to touch his shoulder. As her fingers brushed his collar, he slumped to the side, revealing the gaping wound in his throat, a line of red from ear to ear that had dribbled to a stop on his collar. She knelt, her fingertips closing the man's sightless eyes.

"He was killed away from here," she said. "The blood is nowhere near the floor or walls, and a cut like this…there would be a _lot_ of blood."

His jaw tightened and he swallowed. Who would do such a thing? To kill a man and arrange his corpse in the Maker's house, that was a blasphemy of the highest sort. There was a ratcheting click as Varric brought Bianca to bear as the double doors slammed open. His bow was in his hand, and Aveline was already moving in front of them, strapping her shield to her arm.

"Serrah Hawke. Look at what you have done." Mother Petrice strode into the cathedral as if she had expected to find them there. Her tone was taunting, mocking, and it made Sebastian's heart thud in his chest at the accusation there. "To pounce upon the Viscount's son, a repentant convert, in the Chantry itself? A crime with no excuse. Your Qunari masters will finally answer."

"Revered Mother?" Sebastian forced himself to replace his bow next to the quiver on his back as he stepped forward. "What is the meaning of this?"

Her voice was laced with pity as she looked at him. "Oh, Brother Sebastian. I had hoped not to find you here. I should not be surprised, however. The Qunari are not above using the flesh and the temptation it presents to draw converts."

His confusion replaced itself with anger. "Temptation of the flesh? What are you implying?"

"I have seen how you watch her, Sebastian. I am no fool. I know that you are only a man, and she preys on your baser instincts. It is only natural."

"You have no right – " he said, but she raised her voice to drown him out.

"I have watched, and prayed, as you followed along behind this apostate witch for months. When it stopped, I thought you had finally come to your senses. But I see that it is not so." She had bowed her head over her clasped hands while she spoke, but now she looked into his eyes. Her smile sent chills skittering through him. "There is still time for you to walk in the Maker's embrace, Sebastian. Join me, here, and help us free Kirkwall from the wicked influence of the Qun."

"You would twist this into something it is not, Mother Petrice. Celeste is no Qunari mouthpiece." He could make out shadowy figures approaching, stopping behind Mother Petrice as he spoke. Townsfolk, citizens of Kirkwall. The faithful had been whipped into a frenzy by a zealot. It was everything he strove to work against; now that he was gone, he would not be able to stop it.

"You're not a nice person by any means, Petrice, but murder is a little much, even for you." Celeste rose to her feet, fetching her staff from where it rested on the floor beside her. "I have the captain of the guard with me, and not even you can escape the full extent of what's been done here."

"The captain of the guard? You mean the Ferelden who came across the sea with you?" Petrice smiled again, her hands once again clasped in front of her. Aveline started forward, but Varric pulled her back by her belt, muttering something about it "not being worth it".

"No matter," Petrice said. "Saemus deliberately denied the Maker. How many more would follow if he went unpunished? And yet, even this sympathizer will inspire vengeance when his brutal murder is exposed."

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Celeste said. "You've started something that will end in bloodshed on _both_ sides, and you have no remorse for it whatsoever. Your faithful will die in droves because of this grudge!"

"To die untested would be the real crime, I think." Petrice waved forward the shadowy figures at her back. "Earn your reward, in this life and the next. Kill the heretics."

Sebastian felt a wave of sick despair wash over him; he _knew_ these people. He had blessed them, heard their confessions, and consoled them. Now they bore simple weapons against him. Long knives, hammers, and the odd sword among them, they surged forward at Petrice's command.

A bolt punched through a man's shoulder; he cried out in pain as he spun to the floor.

"Don't kill them!" Sebastian cried. He nocked an arrow and pinned one of the townsfolk to the wall by her skirt.

"We may not have a choice, Choir Boy!" Varric tossed a handful of his smoke pellets into their midst and sent them coughing to their knees as the choking powder did its work. Sebastian set to work pinning them in place with well-placed shots that sent the zealots scrambling. He worked on herding the majority into a tight knit group, and they were panicked enough to comply, shuffling away from arrows that landed inches from hands and feet and heads.

A paralyzation glyph glimmered into being around them, freezing them in place as the air cleared, and Aveline bowled into them, pasting them into unconsciousness with her shield. She planted a vicious right cross into the last one, just as Grand Cleric Elthina descended the stairs with the revered mother right behind her.

"Do you see, your grace? Traitors attack the core of the Chantry, and even turn our own against us." Petrice was shaking her head, fretting as she walked a pace behind Elthina. Sebastian felt the bow slip from his fingers at the stern expression on the Grand Cleric's face.

"You did predict this, mother." Elthina's eyes rested on him, and her frown turned sad. He felt his guts twist. "I see that not even the faithful are exempt."

"Your grace, there's been a mistake – " he began.

"Silence, sinner! Surely the Grand Cleric can see for herself what's going on here."

"I can, Mother Petrice, and the Maker also gave me ears to hear with. I would like to use them, please." She turned to Celeste. "Lady Hawke, I assume you have an explanation for this?"

"I do, your grace. Saemus Dumar was lured here by a forged letter from his father. We were sent by the Viscount to rescue his son. Mother Petrice just happened to be whipping a mob into a frenzy before we arrived." Celeste shook her head. "He was killed in your name, to incite riots against the Qunari."

"Don't you spout your Qunari filth! This is a hand of the Divine!"

"If I were lying, Petrice, would these men and women be unconscious on the floor instead of dead? I do not kill without reason." As if to punctuate her statement, one of the men gave a groan of pain from where he lay at her feet.

"Sebastian?" Elthina turned to him, and he fixed his posture without thinking about it, standing straight before her.

"Your grace, what Celeste says is true. We haven't killed anyone." Another groan wafted up from the floor. "They _are_ in considerable pain, however."

"Mother Petrice, explain yourself." Elthina folded her arms, her bright grey eyes boring into the Revered Mother.

"Saemus Dumar was a Qunari convert. He came here to repent and was slaughtered. This is no longer a matter of heathens squatting in the docks. People are leaving us to join them!"

"And as the faithful who remain, we must pray for them, like any other, young mother."

"But – they deny the Maker!" Petrice was horrified, wetting her lips with a nervous tongue at the Grand Cleric's disapproval.

"And you diminish Him, even as you claim His side."

"But –"

The Grand Cleric silenced Petrice with a look. "Andraste did not volunteer for the flame, Mother Petrice."

She turned that level look on Celeste, who drew herself up and met it head on. "Serrah Hawke, you stand with the captain of the guard?"

"I do, your grace."

"The young mother has erred in her judgment, and a court shall decide her fate. The Chantry respects the law, and so must she."

"Grand Cleric?" Petrice reached to grasp the sleeve of Elthina's robe. There was a zizzing rush of air past Sebastian's cheek and an arrow imbedded itself in Petrice's chest. The hand that had reached for her superior now clutched at her chest as she fell to her knees, trying to withdraw the arrow. Sebastian turned in time to see a Qunari bowman release another arrow that punctured the revered mother's forehead with a wet crunch.

"The Qunari do not abandon their own." The bowman turned and left without another word as Mother Petrice slumped to the floor, brought to justice at last.

Elthina shook her head in sadness and knelt to check on one of the prone men. "Please provide these people with what aid you can until I can summon the lay healers. I will also have someone fetch Viscount Dumar and tell him of his son's sad fate."

"I'll get Viscount Dumar," Aveline said, drawing herself up to salute the Grand Cleric. "I need to round up the guard to arrest these…people, anyway."

"Maker bless you, guard captain." Aveline bowed her head at Elthina's intonation and then spun on her heel to summon the guard.

Celeste and Sebastian set about making the wounded more comfortable while Varric picked up the weapons that lay scattered about on the floor so that no one would get any ideas. It was quick work, save for the one man with the bolt in his shoulder. Sebastian gave a small prayer of thanks that Varric hadn't decided to use poison this afternoon as the bolt slid free, Celeste pressing down with her hands as a green pulse of healing closed the tear in the flesh. Blood gushed up from the wound regardless of the pressure, coating her hands and making him thankful that the man was unconscious.

She sat back with a sigh, the little frown line between her brows making him reach for her. He helped her to her feet and led her through the dormitories to the kitchens in the back, settling her at the scarred wooden table. He pumped water into the sink and scrubbed his hands before dampening a cloth towel and bringing it to her so that she could clean her hands.

She was quiet for a long while before she spoke. "Do you regret it?"

"Regret what?" He avoided the question, taking the towel from her and setting it in a bucket of water to soak.

She huffed a little, the frown line deepening. "You know what, Sebastian. Do you regret giving this up?"

"Never." He smiled. "The Maker has a plan for all of us, and I think I was meant to spend part of it in the Chantry. Now I am being called to spend my time elsewhere, and I have no regrets."

"The way she spoke to you…I don't want to be the reason you feel guilty, not ever."

He tucked his hand under her chin, tilting her head up so he could look at her. "Guilt means we're doing something wrong. Does this feel wrong?"

He kissed her, soft and slow, his other palm balanced on the table for support as he drank her in. He felt her hands press against the sides of his neck, and felt his pulse jump in response. He gave a soft growl and slid his hand from her chin to her hair, pressing her to him. Soon enough, the shallow breaths they were taking were not enough, and he broke away, resting his forehead on hers.

"Soon, when everything settles down, we'll have some actual time together, and I'll be able to do this properly." He gave her another, lighter kiss, feathering it over her lower lip. "As it is, I'm not nearly satisfied with that."

"Then I'll just have to tell everyone to sod off so we can make that time." She gave a cheeky smile and patted his hand. "With incentive like that, how can I say no to you?"

"Tease." He tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, an affectionate smile on his lips.

The sound of a clearing throat from the doorway made them both jump. Varric was leaning on the jamb, thumbs tucked into his belt as was his wont. Six months ago, Sebastian would have flushed with embarrassment; now he just raised an eyebrow at Varric in silent challenge. The dwarf seemed to approve, plastering a bland smile on his face.

"Aveline just got back with the Viscount. You might want to speak with him, Hawke."

She nodded and rose, giving his hand a small squeeze before setting off to console the grieving leader of Kirkwall. It was the only rest they would know for the next forty-eight hours.


	11. Scream

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Eleven: Scream

* * *

"Isabela!" Celeste's shout met empty air. The pirate was already gone, slipping out the back and taking the Tome of Koslun with her.

The glow of fires could be seen on the horizon that marked the docks district, red and angry in the fading twilight. Sebastian bit off a curse before it could form, wiping the grit of smoke from his eyes as the first of the city's fires reached his nose. Despite their best efforts, the Qunari were now marching to war. Their holy relic had disappeared once again and the Arishok was making good on his promise. Screams wafted through the air as terrified civilians were herded through the streets by brawny Qunari warriors.

Shadows danced around them, highlighting the broad frames of a Qunari patrol. They rushed into the fray as Aveline's guard engaged the invaders, protecting the fleeing noncombatants. His arrows found their mark in a Saarebas, sending the chained mage spinning into a wall as Aveline matched blows with a Sten, her sword ringing in sharp staccato counterpoint to the explosions of magical energy that Celeste sent whirling around the battlefield. The ratcheting cough of Bianca was a grumbling undertone, pitched under the whistling of his arrows. They cleared the field with quick precision, the guards mopping up the ones Celeste paralyzed with efficiency.

Aveline questioned a pair of her guardsmen to get the bigger picture on the state of the city. The Qunari had caught the guard by surprise, bursting from alleyways and overwhelming them in a show of force. Bit by bit the city guards had to direct those fleeing the Qunari farther and farther back, falling back to the more defensible Hightown. The poor stood no chance, the giants swooping down on them and taking prisoners, marching them away in chains.

The captain of the guard grew more and more thin-lipped as she heard their reports. She snapped orders, resting her hand on the hilt of her sword as she spoke. Her rigid posture conveyed just how serious this was, and she whirled on the group once the guardsmen were dismissed.

"We have to get to Hightown. The Qunari are making a push toward the Keep. I need to be there," Aveline said.

Celeste nodded. "Anders will have left the clinic to help. We should look for him on the way."

The fighting was brutal and came in fits and starts. The lack of order had only spurred the scattered gangs into action, robbing the people fleeing the Qunari; several times their group became targeted by foolish brigands as well as the city's invaders. His arms ached from drawing his bow and he was covered in ash from the fires that had taken to the city like a tinderbox. Anders met them as they pushed their way through Lowtown, leading a group of terrified people through the flames and the violence. His staff was a beacon, lit with the eerie blue fire that announced his presence in the clinic, keeping the civilians calm as they walked.

He passed off the group to several guardsmen at the unspoken boundary of Lowtown, a high wall that separated it from the estates of Hightown and the other government buildings. The frightened women and children were ushered through the shield wall, running toward the Chantry. Sebastian knew that they would at least be safe there for the moment; the walls were thick and the doors banded with iron. It seemed to be the last safe haven in Kirkwall. The clash of arms and shouts of pain from attacker and defender alike were everywhere this bloody night.

Anders prepared to rush back into the flames of Lowtown, but Celeste had other ideas. Aveline barked orders to her guards to hold the line and send out skirmishing patrols to find innocents and keep them from danger; this seemed to be more to appease Justice than to make any real difference. They battled their way through the overturned stalls of the Hightown market, the debris providing another obstacle to the Keep, wasting time that they didn't have. Varric passed him a luminescent yellow vial during one of the lulls in combat, tossing it to him as they ran. He pulled the cork with his teeth and downed the liquid, feeling the aches of his shoulders and back ease somewhat.

Arrows became a rarity; his quiver was running low before the riots, and he scooped up arrows from fallen opponents as they moved, trying to replenish his supply on the run. His missiles became a motley assortment of ill-made arrows. Under normal circumstances he would have turned his nose up at the poor balance and fletch jobs. Qunari began to fall from their arrows now, rather than the red and blue fletchings of ones he made himself. He hoped it would cause confusion.

The gangs became thinner as the stairs to Hightown's government district got closer, more pockets of Qunari appearing from around corners to ambush the party. A phalanx of templars poured out of the Gallows, their numbers bolstering the guards even as their suppression techniques silenced the Saarebas.

A flash of a red hood at their front made Sebastian bite back on surprise. Knight-Commander Meredith made a fearsome sight at the head of the templar column, roaring orders as she swung her two handed sword around her in a whirl of silver. They formed a wedge to drive apart the Qunari ranks, hitting the middle of the fighting like a battering ram.

The Qunari line buckled and broke, allowing the templars to force them back to the Keep's stone courtyard. Screams of pain and the sounds of battle mixed with the smell of roasting flesh as the mages backed the templars in a show of solidarity as they fought for their mutual homes. First Enchanter Orsino himself appeared next to the party with a swirl of robes, grasping Celeste's arm in his urgency.

"They have Viscount Dumar and the other nobles trapped in the Keep. The Knight-Commander and I will keep them distracted, but you must go now. Get in there and stop this madness!" The elf released her and pressed a vial of lyrium into her palm as she nodded, her face a grim mask in the firelight. He rejoined the fray, a fireball preceding him as he rejoined the handful of mages in the rearguard.

Celeste turned to Aveline. "Is there another way in?"

"The barracks gate should be manned, but I don't know if it's safe." Aveline readied her shield. "The front door is quicker."

"So be it." Electricity sparked along her fingers, her hair lifting from her head as she prepared the spell. "On three."

They charged through the fray, dodging attacker and defender alike as they made a break for the double doors of the keep. The Qunari were too busy pushing back the templars to notice the smaller group, and they raced up the steps in short order. Anders and Celeste launched lightning as they shut the doors, rippling confusion through the Qunari ranks before moving on to the throne room.

For all their efforts, they would prove to be too late. They emerged through the double doors to the throne room as the Arishok held the Viscount's head above his own, tossing it and the crown at Celeste's feet in a gory offering. Screams erupted through the throng of nobles that cowered between the hulking Qunari.

"Look at you. Like fat _dathrasi_ you feed and feed and only complain when your meal is interrupted. You never notice that the grass is bare behind you and you care only for your own comforts. You are blind, but _I_ will make you see." The Arishok raked his eyes over the crowd, settling at last on Celeste, who stood staring down at the Viscount's head with a mixture of anger and sorrow. Sebastian was tempted to nock another arrow at the look that the Arishok gave his lady, but hesitated at the stares of the Qunari that had moved to surround them.

Celeste stepped forward, her staff in a white-knuckled grip. The Arishok swept his hand out in the mockery of a greeting. "_Shanedan_, Hawke. I expected you."

"What have you done?" Celeste was rigid with anger now. "You would start a war based on principle? Over a relic?"

"For all your might, you are no different from these _bas_. You do not see." The Arishok shook his head. "What would the Qunari be without principle? Much like you, I suspect. You serve no purpose but yourselves, and think it to be enough. I do not expect you to understand, _basra_."

"There was no purpose to this!" Celeste gestured toward the Viscount's cooling body.

"Everything has purpose in the Qun. Something the basest insect understands, you do not. Would you be more than a cricket in the field, who feeds the bird so that it may feed the hunter? Then prove yourself. Show me you have purpose greater than these _dathrasi_." He raised his hand in a negligent sweep as several Qunari stepped forward, their axes at the ready.

Sebastian did reach for an arrow then, reacting to the crackle of lightning from both mages as the battle erupted around them, sending nobles screaming to the far corners of the room. Aveline roared as she bashed one of the large warriors with her shield, her rage at being unable to protect her liege driving her forward as she used the edge of the shield to gouge a deep line of red across a Qunari throat. Anders sent shields of spell power sparking over their heads as they forced the Qunari into separate corners.

Varric scattered his smoke pellets, shrouding the battlefield in acrid fumes as Sebastian gave a vicious kick that cracked into the knee of a Qunari that got too close. He used the momentum to roll away, leaving a howl of pain in his wake. He came up with an arrow nocked, only to find a bolt pinned in his target's eye. Celeste caught another in the throat with the bladed end of her staff, and he sent an arrow into the broad chest for good measure.

Aveline slammed the pommel of her sword into another's face, sending it backward and spitting out teeth as she roared a challenge to them. Her lip was split and bleeding, but she drove her sword through a broad chest and brought the Qunari to face level, pasting his nose with her forehead. Shoving him backward into two of his fellows, she set her shoulder and charged into them, knocking them over as Celeste sent bolts of lightning snapping through the air to finish off stragglers.

As sudden as the fight was, it was over just as soon. Eight Qunari honor guard lay dead at their feet, and the Arishok gave a solemn nod.

"It seems you are _basalit-an_ after all. This is what respect looks like, _bas_. Some of you will never earn it." He paused, sweeping the rest of the gathered nobles with his inscrutable stare once again. "Tell me, Hawke. You know we are denied Par Vollen because the Tome of Koslun remains missing. How should I resolve this conflict without it?"

"I believe I can answer that."

A clatter at the door made the party turn as Isabela swaggered in, stepping over the body of one of the fallen Qunari. Her smirk spoke volumes as she carried the book, easily as thick as Varric's chest, up to the Arishok. She handed it over without a fight.

"You'll find it _mostly_ undamaged."

"The Tome." It was the first time that Sebastian heard anything other than disdain in the Arishok's voice. The Qunari's reverence for the book was staggering, and in that moment, he felt that he could understand the Arishok. Here was a man of great faith; not his own, but a man of great faith regardless.

"It took me a while to get back, what with all the fighting," Isabela said as she reached Celeste.

"I thought you were long gone," Celeste said with a smile.

"You're a bad influence. I was halfway to Ostwick before I had to turn around. It's pathetic."

"Frightening, isn't it, to realize you have the potential to be a better person?" Sebastian said. Isabela tossed him a rude gesture, which he took in stride. She had come back; that was all that mattered.

The Arishok handed off the tome to one of his lieutenants, who took it with respect. "The Tome has been returned. I am free to go home to Par Vollen – with the thief."

"_What_?" Isabela was incredulous, backing away a step.

"Oh no," Aveline said, her voice a growl. "If anyone kicks her arse, it's going to be _me_."

"She stole the Tome of Koslun. She must return with us."

"Why?" Celeste stepped in front of Isabela, who backed away another step.

"She will submit to the Qun and the Ben-Hassrath, more than that, I will not say."

"Unacceptable. You have your relic. You can return to Par Vollen. Isabela stays with me."

The Arishok was silent for a long moment before hefting his sword across his shoulder. "You leave me no choice. I challenge you to a duel, Hawke. She will be the prize."

"Oh no you don't. If anyone is going to duel, they're going to duel me." Isabela pushed Hawke out of the way, stepping in front of her.

"You are not _basalit-an_. You are unworthy."

"Isabela." Hawke's voice filled with steely authority. She turned to the Arishok, her jaw set. "If I win the challenge, Isabela stays with me. If I lose?"

The Arishok's lips lifted in a smile that sent chills down Sebastian's spine. "Then you are dead."

"No," Sebastian said, moving forward and grabbing her hand. "You can't seriously be considering this?"

She squeezed his fingers. "Do you trust me?"

"I do, but – "

She turned to the Arishok. "I accept your challenge. Have your men clear the bodies, and I will prepare. I need a few moments."

"Then you will have them." The Arishok gestured and two Qunari began clearing the floor so that there would be room for combat.

She tugged Sebastian to the side, away from the others. He covered her mouth with his as soon as they were far enough away, unable to find the words for the fear that coiled in his belly. He squeezed her shoulders as he broke away from her, searching her face for a long moment.

"I need you to have faith in me, Sebastian. I can do this." She took his face in her hands, her palms warm against his skin. "If I can stop this here, I will."

"I – " He hesitated, not knowing how to voice his concerns. "I can't stop it now. Be careful."

She smiled at him. "Always."

"Hawke. The floor is clear." The Arishok stood at one end of the room, his arms crossed.

"Very well," she called, and started forward. His fingers clasped her wrist and stopped her. When she looked back, he pulled her to him and kissed her again.

"I love you," he whispered, low enough for only her to hear.

"Then I can do anything." She removed his hand with gentle fingers and smiled before readying her staff and walking to the edge of the roughed out dueling ring.

Watching her walk away was the hardest thing he had ever had to do.

* * *

Silent Qunari warriors gathered around the pair, their weapons sheathed and their arms folded across their broad chests. Celeste looked so small in the middle of them. Fear squeezed his heart, and frustration made his hands clench at his sides hard enough for the nails to draw blood.

The Arishok unsheathed his greatsword, inclining his head toward Celeste. Cambert was at her side, and that was a small comfort; the dog was a vicious fighter. Lightning rippled along her form as she returned the nod, and then the whole world narrowed to the two of them as the Arishok lowered his head and charged.

Celeste ducked under the swing of the sword, electricity bursting from her fingers into the Arishok's chest and sending him staggering back a few steps. Cambert was snarling, his hackles up as he lunged for the Qunari, sharp teeth tearing into the Arishok's calf muscle. A clawed hand scruffed the dog and tossed him away, slamming the Mabari into a pillar as the Arishok swung his sword again. Celeste skittered back on her heels, and Sebastian's breath caught in his throat as the sword missed her by inches. She laid a glyph at her feet and backed away, the Arishok falling prey to the paralysis as he stepped forward to swing again.

The temperature in the room dropped by several degrees as she brought her thumbs and forefingers together to shower him with a cone of cold, his feet freezing to the floor as she aimed the blast down his legs. He snarled and brought his sword down on the ice, cleaving a huge chunk out of it as she backed away. She brought her hands up, and that curious sucking sensation invaded Sebastian's senses as she aimed a whirling black globe of spell power at the Arishok. Time seemed to slow to a crawl and then sent his stomach flipping forward as it returned to normal.

She settled a good distance away, slinging a bolt of energy from her staff as she fumbled in her pouch for her potions. Cambert was up and moving again as the Arishok struggled to fight off the slowing effects of the spell, harrying the Qunari with snaps of his powerful jaws. She finally pulled the glowing vial out, yanking the cork out with her teeth and downing the liquid as the ice around the Arishok's legs began to melt.

Electricity wove its way around Celeste's form as she prepared her spell, crackling in the air. The smell of ozone invaded Sebastian's nostrils, a metallic tang coating the back of his tongue as she prepared to cast another lightning bolt.

She had miscalculated.

The slowing effect of her magic gave way as the Arishok bulled his way through, feinting in with his sword. She stepped to the side, and he whipped around, plunging the monstrous blade low through her stomach. Sebastian's world stopped at the sight of blood spilling from her lips as she was lifted high in the air, the Arishok roaring in pain as Cambert scored a hit on the inside of his thigh, severing the artery there. He swung about, slamming her to the ground as he grabbed the dog, trying to crush the brave Mabari's throat as he staggered. Blood arced from the wound, pumping the giant's life away as his hold on Cambert grew weaker. He sagged to the floor, mumbling something in his language, and the dog slipped from his fingers. Cambert coughed as air rushed back into his lungs, wobbling over to his mistress to nose at her.

She was trying to rise, and Sebastian felt his wooden legs begin the torturous strides that would take him to her side. He was unaware of the string of 'no's that poured from his mouth like a command to the Maker Himself as he stumbled to her side to cradle her head in his lap. Her breathing was slowing as Anders rushed to her as well, his hands already glowing with the rush of healing.

She was trying to speak, but a spasm wracked her body and cut off her words. Sebastian cupped her face, the rush of white noise in his ears unabated as his vision narrowed to the dark green of her eyes. She was smiling at him, her teeth stained with her own blood. Anders was yelling for lyrium, his skin glowing blue as Justice took over to empower his healing, but Sebastian was more aware of the wetness dripping on her face.

His tears. He wiped them away with shaking fingers, smoothing the unruly red locks out of her eyes. He was praying, to anyone and anything, that she would be all right. Never had he felt so helpless, unable to do _anything_, and the anger he felt towards himself at that moment dwarfed anything he had experienced. He held her still as Aveline took hold of the greatsword, pulling it free with a sickening noise. Celeste squirmed in discomfort, and he shushed her as more blood gushed from the wound over Ander's cupped hands as he tried to stem the flow.

Orsino appeared on Meredith's heels as the Knight-Commander swept into the halls on the tail of the departing Qunari. Icy blue eyes took in the slumped form of the Arishok and the prone form of Celeste as the apostate made his desperate attempt to heal her. Orsino's considerable strength joined Anders, the First Enchanter lending his spell power to the healing. The belly wound began to close, the flesh knitting together again with agonizing slowness as Anders passed his hands over the wound time and again.

"Please," Sebastian said, his voice choked. "Don't leave me."

Her breathing began to steady as the wound closed, her eyelids drooping from exhaustion as Anders sat back after what felt like hours. Sebastian's hearing came back into sharp clarity at the mage's sigh of relief.

"She's going to be all right," Anders said, his shoulders slumping. "She needs bed rest, and a lot of it, but she's out of danger."

Sebastian felt his heart swell at the news, and gathered her closer to him, cradling her in his lap. Meredith was still surveying the room, silent in the face of two apostates under her very nose. She made a slow turn to face the crowd of nobles, the joints of her armor creaking as she did.

"Your Champion," she said, her voice ringing in the now quiet hall. There was no cheering; only a relieved murmur sounded as Sebastian lifted Celeste to carry her home. He was aware of Meredith's eyes on her back as he and the others left the throne room.

* * *

Hightown was still lit by the macabre fires of the lower city as they wended their way homeward. He held her close, careful not to jostle her as Varric and Anders cleared away debris in the path. Aveline stayed behind to reassemble the guards, promising to come by later. Celeste slept, the healing magic aided by magical slumber. They reached the Amell estate in short order, the building untouched by looters through some miracle. The door was unlocked, and Bodahn and Sandal were nowhere to be found; Sebastian assumed they had fled the rioting.

He carried her upstairs and tucked her into bed while Anders lit a fire in the grate, pulling the covers to her chin. Satisfied she was sleeping still, he turned away and found Anders watching him with a sober look.

"We need to talk." The mage was serious, gesturing with a jerk of his head that this needed to be done outside. Sebastian followed Anders to the library, where the fire was lit with a flick of the wrist.

Sebastian had a feeling he should be sitting; his knees weren't all that steady after the stress of the day anyway. He sank into one of the plush chairs and Anders took the other, his chin in his hands as he stared into the fire.

"That belly wound she took," he said, not meeting Sebastian's eyes. "It was a terrible thing."

"It was," Sebastian agreed, feeling foreboding well up in the back of his mind.

"I don't think you understand. It's a hard thing to explain to someone who's not a mage. There are going to be…difficulties." Anders met his eyes at last. "There was a choice that had to be made while I was trying to save her life, and I made it."

"What kind of difficulties?" Sebastian's mouth was dry.

"The sword cut her vitals almost in twain. It was a choice between saving her and keeping her whole." The mage took a deep breath. "She's never going to be able to have children."

The information hit Sebastian in a way he'd never considered; visions of small children with the distinctive Vael curl in their hair but with eyes that were a dark green swam in front of him, never to be attained. He found that his thoughts for the throne and an heir were last in his mind, and only the sorrow that he could not share this with her cut deep enough to choke a strangled noise from him.

"I thought you should know," Anders said, his jaw set.

"I – " He fumbled again for the words, but they did not come. "Thank you for telling me, Anders. Will you help me break the news to her?"

"I'm more interested in how you're going to handle this. Will you still be there for her now that she's incapable of bearing you an heir?" Anders's voice was rough with something unidentifiable, until Sebastian looked at the man. There was jealousy, and not a little bit of anger.

_He loves her too_, came the thought, unbidden. _Maker help me, I had clues but never put them together._

"I would not abandon her now, Anders, regardless of what you might think," Sebastian said, the words frigid between them. The slightest breath would crack the fragile peace they had formed between them. Silence reigned; it stretched taut, broken only by the crackle and pop of the logs in the fireplace.

Anders shifted, and then rose. "I'll be back in the morning. Will you watch over her?"

"Always."

The door clicked shut behind Anders, leaving Sebastian to his thoughts of children that could never be.


	12. Satinalia

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Twelve: Satinalia

* * *

In the morning, Anders had come and gone, pronouncing her as healthy as circumstances would allow. The mage would not look at him, staring at a point somewhere above Sebastian's left shoulder before making an abrupt exit.

The delicate peace between them dissolved overnight, leaving Anders combative and restless, the threat of Justice flaring just below the surface. Sebastian hadn't been very gracious in hindsight; the way the mage had fussed over Celeste brought to mind the unwelcome knowledge that another man desired her. He had managed to control his temper while Anders passed his hands over her abdomen, but it had been an unsure thing for a moment. If Anders's hands lingered too long, Sebastian wasn't able to tell; he made sure to stand at the foot of the bed, glowering at the other man for all he was worth.

Bodahn bustled about downstairs, back to the business of running the household. She slept, aided by Anders's magic, for another two days. He was sitting beside the bed when she woke. His smile was fragile, and he was sure it would break at the slightest touch, but he wore it for her nonetheless. His fingers found hers in the coverlet, squeezing with gentle pressure.

"How are you feeling?"

"My guts feel like someone is dancing the Remigold in them, but otherwise, I think I'll live." Her voice was scratchy, and he rose to get her a drink, settling himself next to her on the bed with his back against the headboard. He tucked a leg under himself and helped her sit up, careful of the wound. He tilted the cup to her lips, letting her drink her fill in slow sips before setting it on the bedside table. He felt her nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, her arms going about his middle as she curled into his warmth.

"It's over, isn't it?" she asked.

"Aye, sweetling, you finished the fight." He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. "Knight-Commander Meredith proclaimed you Champion of Kirkwall."

"You're joking. A known apostate, Champion of Kirkwall?" He tilted his head to see the amused smile playing across her mouth. "Tell me another one."

"She didn't arrest Anders either, even after he brought Justice to the surface to save you." He rubbed his palm between her shoulder blades in an absent motion, his fingertips pressing down on her spine. She made a small noise of approval and leaned her head against him. The unease that lingered after Anders's departure disappeared in the wake of that breathy sound, and he stroked his palm down her spine for the chance to hear it again.

His voice turned teasing. "I think the title should have gone to Cambert. He dealt the final blow, after all."

"Now I don't know whether to laugh or have you committed. That's insane." She didn't seem to be inclined to do either, toying with the fabric of his shirt.

He was avoiding the truth and he knew it. She was happy; taking that away from her should not be his burden. His mind whirled with a way to broach the subject, and could not come up with a single one that did not sound horrible.

He took a deep breath and steeled himself. "There's something else."

The fingers moving with abandon over his stomach paused at the shift of emotion in his voice. She sat up with his help so that she could look him in the face. He met her eyes, as much as he wanted to turn away.

"Anders explained it to me, but he said it was hard to make a non-mage understand." He took her hands, running the pads of his thumbs over her knuckles. "He said that there was a choice that had to be made, in order to save your life. It was a choice between saving your life and keeping you whole."

Her answering nod was slow. "He knows what it's like to cast a healing spell. Anyone can throw fire and destroy something. There aren't many mages who can master putting someone back together. It's delicate."

She took his hand and turned it palm up. Her fingers traced the creases there, tapping at his lifeline. "For example, in your hand you have a total of twenty-seven bones. In order for me to heal a broken bone in your hand, I have to know where the bones go in the first place. Then I have to know how the tendons and muscle attach to that bone. All that, and it's not even a life-threatening wound."

He took her hands again. Her fingers trembled, and he held them still against him. It frustrated him that he could not soothe her. He brought her palm to his lips, trying anyway. She looked away.

"I take it that you know what he means by being alive but not being whole?" Sebastian asked against the warm skin of her palm. He hated himself for having to press the issue.

"From where the scar starts, I can make a good guess." Her other hand pressed against her belly. Her smile was pained, thin as parchment in the sunlight from the window. "I would have made a terrible mother, I think."

The self-deprecation was new. It sent a frission of alarm through him as he saw her head lower. He put his fingers under her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"Stop, please. This is already hurting more than it should. You know what this means for us." She pulled away from him, her arms wrapping around her middle.

"And what's that?" His hands twitched in anticipation of what was coming. He knew her now, and knew she would attempt to do what she felt was best.

"Starkhaven needs heirs. That's not something I can give you any more, Sebastian." She shook her head. "I'll support you in any other capacity you need me, I promise, but – "

He silenced her with his mouth, pulling her to rest in his lap as he ended the protest in the best way he knew how. His hand slid from hers to trace a path up her neck, pressing against the pulse point to feel the pounding of her heart, so solid and real and _alive_. His other hand cupped the back of her head, keeping her bound to him as he drank his fill. She gave a shuddering sigh, melting against him, and he felt a growl begin in his chest, something possessive about the way he held her now.

He broke away with a start when she winced in pain, her hands going to her belly, and kicked himself as he remembered her injuries. He released his hold on her, realizing he was squeezing her far too tight. He brushed a thumb across her lips, and she looked up at him, shaking her head at the contrite expression on his face.

"Celeste, I'm sorry," he said, placing a gentler kiss on her lips. His larger hand covered hers, holding it still over the fresh scar that rested beneath her linen sleeping clothes. Aveline had been the one to bathe her and dress the wound, shooing him out of the room after his two-night vigil so that he could eat and bathe himself. He had not seen the scar for himself, but the flinch she gave made his imagination twist it into something a great deal worse than it probably was.

"Sebastian – "

"It will take much more than your insatiable need to do the right thing to make me leave," he said. His smile was full of genuine affection this time as he tucked a wayward wisp of hair behind her ear. "You're stubborn, but so am I. I'm not going anywhere."

She buried her head in the crook of his neck in answer and he felt her lips against his throat, moving in soundless words. Her lips roved upward, placing a small kiss against the skin between his jaw and his ear, and he let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, relaxing against the headboard with her. He held her close for a moment, before giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze and helping her settle back into the pillows.

She gave him a bemused smile. "What's all this, then?"

"Bed rest. Healer's orders." His smile grew at the protest he saw on her face. "Oh, no. You lectured me once, something about 'you would give me such a pinch that I would not forget it if I didn't stay in bed'. Fear of retribution kept me there, even after you'd left for the Deep Roads. Now it's your turn."

She gave him her best pout, and all he gave her was a raised eyebrow in return. She sighed and folded her arms, looking put out. He kissed her pouty lower lip, and dodged the pillow she threw at him when he asked her if she wanted some hot broth now or later.

"Two more weeks of this," he said with a mock sigh. "The Maker does put the worst trials in His children's path."

This time the pillow hit him in the face.

* * *

Celeste was much more subdued after Anders's visit a few days later. The two mages conferred in quiet voices, their faces grave as they discussed the extent of her injuries. Even with his misgivings about Anders, Sebastian found he couldn't bear the remembrance of his fear and self-loathing that he was unable to help her, and so he excused himself for some air.

Despite the ocean climate's best efforts, winter was beginning to make itself known in Kirkwall with the first of many storms. Dirty slurries of slush coated the cobbles as he walked, making his footsteps more careful than normal. The bitter winds would howl through the streets for another two months, well after every citizen was tired of them, and then the climate would reassert itself, bringing them warm, salty springs and blistering summers. He drew his cloak about himself as a finger of wind slipped under his armor to make his teeth chatter.

The only thing that would break the monotony of the winter winds was the string of noble parties that would light Hightown with braziers kept stoked against the chill. The frenzy would culminate in the celebration of Satinalia in two weeks, the midpoint of winter. Gifts would be exchanged, and even the refugees of Darktown would string holly from their doors and feast with their neighbors. Servants would be "served" by their masters, the classes equal for one day of celebration.

The thought of Satinalia so close brought him to the realization that he still had not found her a gift. He had been distracted, of course, but that was no excuse. He looked up at the snow-darkened sky and judged that he had some time to prowl the indoor marketplace in Hightown before he should return. He veered down the side street that would take him there, brushing the snowflakes from his shoulders as he entered the brazier-lit building.

The merchants that had plied their wares in the open-air markets in the summer now had smaller stalls set in the walls of the long corridors of the renovated feasting hall. Once a place where magisters of the Tevinter Imperium held debauched feasts that would bring color to even the most jaded person's cheeks, now the marketplace buzzed with the sounds and smells of several hundred people, all packed in to do their shopping for the upcoming celebration. Poor and noble alike rubbed elbows in this market, all in good cheer for the holiday.

Sebastian browsed the stalls with interest, trying to decide on something that she would like and hoping that there would be something to catch his eye. He dismissed idea after idea, each trinket more gaudy and garish than the last. Strings of pearls fished from the inlets on the Wounded Coast, wines pressed in vineyards from Antiva, even silks from Nevarra were dismissed. He despaired of finding anything as he neared the end of the market stalls.

A tousled head of dark hair caught his attention as he neared the end of the hall. Dark eyes and a clever mouth, with quick, self-assured movements made him the perfect salesman, charming the women and endearing himself to the men with his ingratiating smile. The elf was familiar; he had seen Varric and Isabela speaking to him when they had the occasion to be in Darktown. He struggled to remember the elf's name, and it clicked when the dark eyes turned to him and lit with greeting.

"Master Vael, a pleasure to see you today, even in this bitter cold!" Tomwise was cheerful as always, his hands warmed in woolen mittens and a blue muffler wrapped under his chin. His feet were still bare, but the chill of the cobbles didn't seem to bother him.

"Hello, Tomwise," Sebastian said with a smile. He turned to the stall and was greeted with something much different than he expected. The poison-maker sat in front of a table that was littered with carved amber, stone, and bone. Pipes, necklaces, even statues were carved with delicate whorls and spirals, forming simple designs or animals. "Did you make these?"

"Some," Tomwise said. He fingered some of the simpler designs. "My sister carves them much prettier than I can. My hands are steady, but they're for mixing, not for carving."

He held up a thumb, where a jagged scar broke the whirl of the print there. "After I cut myself open once trying to do a fancier design, I couldn't work for a week. Now she does the more delicate things."

Sebastian nodded. "It's beautiful work, regardless."

"Are you looking for a gift for someone, Master Vael?" Tomwise's look was canny. "Perhaps the new Champion hasn't had her gifts bought yet?"

Sebastian felt heat crawling up his neck. Tomwise looked triumphant. "Yes. How could you tell?"

"I make it my business to be able to read people. In my line of work, it's easier to know when to reach for a blade than being caught by surprise." A grin crossed his face, his black eyes sparking in mirth. "I think I might have something, and I was saving it for someone who would appreciate it."

Tomwise rummaged in the storage boxes under his table, muttering under his breath as he did. He gave a triumphant grunt as he shoved one of the boxes out of the way and pulled out a worked pouch, the buttery leather dyed a soft green. He worked the drawstrings open and poured a length of silverite chain into his wool-covered palm, the links making a musical tinkle as they slithered out of the pouch.

He handed it to Sebastian, who saw the chain had a charm, a delicate carving of a bird. The amber was dark, almost chocolate, and was etched where the feathers would be on an actual bird, the detail meticulous. He turned the bird over to see that the scrimshaw ran the same on the other side. He held the chain up and let the links slide down his fingers.

It would be just long enough to brush the tops of her breasts; the mental image of her wearing his gift and nothing else crossed his mind, and that thought alone set his heart pounding in his chest as he reached for his belt pouch.

"How much do you want for it, Tomwise?"

"Oh, I think that the look on your face pays for it plenty, but my sister would have my hide. Five sovereigns sound fair to you, Master Vael?"

Sebastian paid him double, and Tomwise threw in the pouch.

It was hard to keep from giving her the gift as soon as he walked in the door, but he stowed it in the bottom of his trunk and answered her question about where he'd been with an enigmatic smile. She shrugged off his sly look and drew him into playing chess with her. He obliged, keeping his excitement under wraps to aid her swift recovery. He spent as much time with her as possible, often nodding to sleep in the chair beside her bed with a book in his lap in the evenings. She progressed well, sleeping when she felt she needed it, and the bruises around her eyes began to fade as her strength returned.

She was confined to her bed until the day of the Satinalia celebration, when Anders pronounced her fit to join the festivities after a thorough once-over. Restless though she was, she didn't jump from the bed as Sebastian thought she might. She stood with care, stretching her muscles before asking him to drag the copper tub from its corner so she could bathe. He did, leaving her in privacy and returning to the guest room where he kept his things. There, at the bottom of his chest, lay the pouch; he tucked it into his belt after he'd seen to his own wash.

Polishing his boots to a mirror shine, he gave himself a critical glance in the piece of silvered glass that hung on the wall. He tilted his head to the side, removing his shirt to shave before the festival. He didn't have many clothes left over from his time in Starkhaven. The Chantry had encouraged a life of poverty and he had complied, donating most of his fine clothes to the needy. He still had a few things, however, for official functions. He chose a soft black linen shirt and a pair of woolen trews with a leather inset.

Celeste had made plans for a party at the Amell estate; the Hanged Man was a boisterous place, but there would be more than the normal share of drinking and carousing and this would insure that there were no interruptions. He could hear her humming in a quiet undertone as he walked down the hall, and the sound brought a smile to his lips. His hand brushed the pouch tucked in his belt and he knocked on the door.

"Yes?"

"Are you decent?"

"That depends on who's asking." She poked her head out of the door and grinned at him, her good humor back. She had always abhorred robes, claiming they were a beacon for trouble; she avoided them now. Her skirt was soft brown muslin, something for comfort rather than style, and it suited her. She wore a light, cream colored cotton tunic over that, which left her shoulders bare to the warm air of the house.

"I suppose I should ask if you're ready, instead, then." Her mood was infectious, and he pecked her lips in affection before offering his arm. "I think everyone should be getting here soon."

She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and he escorted her down the stairs. They greeted Bodahn, who was already laying out food for all of them. He and Sandal would eat with them during the party, but he insisted on seeing to his duties beforehand. Celeste thanked him with a smile, and he gave her a bow worthy of anything Sebastian had seen in a noble court, causing her to laugh. They helped set out the rest of the food, smiles and laughter interrupted only by the knocking on the door.

Merrill was the first to arrive, bringing sprigs of holly and cloth-wrapped gifts for them all, the snow outside dusting her dark hair with moisture. She hung the holly above the door with a blessing against Fen'Harel and hugged them both, pressing their gifts into their hands. These were set aside for later, right before everyone was to leave for the night, as was tradition. Merrill ensconced herself next to the fire for the moment to warm up, a glass of spiced cider in her hands. Varric and Isabela arrived next, followed by Anders and Aveline, both bearing bottles of spirits. Fenris was last, shutting the door to the cold and accepting a glass of wine with unusual grace.

Food was consumed to excess, the table groaning with food. Roasted goose, rounds of cheese, fresh baked bread and pie, and a host of other edibles were dispensed and devoured, punctuated with conversation and laughter as the wine and spirits began to flow. Merrill told tales of the Dalish until her throat ran dry, and then Varric took over, recounting some of the more hilarious (and embellished) stories of the Champion's time in Kirkwall. These Celeste bore with characteristic good grace, only chiming in when asked and laughing at how tall the tales had grown.

It didn't take long for the party to get into full swing; Anders deigned to sing after a few mugs of ale, Isabela singing in rough melodic counterpoint to some of the spicier ditties he knew. The others clapped and kept time, Sandal more enthusiastic than most, although he was a half-pace behind. Bodahn covered the boy's ears for the raunchier tunes, and Sebastian was thankful for that.

Anders was a fair hand at singing, but terrible at playing the lute. Sebastian noted it was out of tune and took it from him, grinning into his goblet at the squawk of protest that died as he settled the instrument in his lap and fiddled with the neck. He tuned the lute with a few flicks of his wrists, twisting the knobs until the lute fair to hummed under his calloused fingers.

"You're full of surprises, Choir Boy. Next you'll tell me you can sing, too," Varric said, raising a sandy eyebrow.

Isabella laughed as Sebastian strummed a lilting rhythm in answer. "I think he saw that as a challenge, Varric."

"My mother was not lax in what she taught her children. I have all the skills that would make me a well-rounded noble," Sebastian said with a smile, his thumb slipping a little on a string as he tested the tuning. "I can sing, but not like you think."

Varric laughed and raised his glass. "Well then, let's hear it!"

Sebastian was feeling good, the glass of wine he'd been drinking warming him a little more than he thought it would, and he looked to Celeste, who was laughing in delight at this display of foolishness on his part. In the end, that was what decided him. He fiddled with the tuning a bit more before setting his fingers on the frets with firm purpose.

The tune he struck was not an upbeat song, but slow and slipped its way around the room, breathing fingers into the corners as he dredged his mind for the words that he hadn't sung in years. They came in slow whispers, jarred by the muscle memory of his fingers on the lute. He took a deep breath and began, aware of the way his brogue thickened as he sang. He had a rich tenor roundness to his voice, aided by years of singing the Chant, and it lent itself well to the song he had chosen.

"_When I've done the work of day,_

_And I row my boat away,_

_Down the wide Minanter's grace, _

_As the evening light is failing._

_Then I gaze on my city's walls_

_Where the after-glory glows,_

_And I dream of two bright eyes_

_With a merry mouth below,"_

Here his eyes met Celeste's for a moment before sliding back again into the wells of his memory for the rest of the lyrics, his fingers meandering across the strings of the lute in slow counterpoint to the melancholy of his song. Fenris's eyes slipped closed, and he leaned back in his chair, the firelight playing off the tattoos at his throat as he swallowed another sip of wine. Varric had gone very quiet, giving Sebastian an appraising look as his fingers twitched, perhaps to jot down the words to the tune to be set in one of his stories later.

"_She's my beauteous nighean ruadh,_

_She's my joy and sorrow too,_

_And if she prove untrue,_

_Well, I cannot live without her._

_For my heart's a boat in tow,_

_And I'd give the world to know,_

_Why she means to let me go,_

_As I sing _–_ hi-ree, ho-row."_

Merrill sat forward, her chin in her palms as she listened, a small smile playing about the corners of her mouth. Isabela had turned aside, her mouth twisted into something unidentifiable – it might have been sorrow, if Isabela had been one for sorrow. Aveline was staring into her ale, the knuckles white on the mug. Anders was frowning, although Sebastian couldn't tell if it was dislike of him or dislike of the song.

"_Nighean ruadh, your lovely hair,_

_Has more glamour I declare,_

_Than all the tresses fair_

'_tween the Dales to Hasmal's shore._

_Be they lint-white, brown or gold,_

_Be they blacker than the sloe,_

_They are no more worth to me,_

_Than a melting flake of snow."_

His fingers stumbled a bit, but he pressed on, almost through the song. He propped his foot on a nearby chair rung for more comfortable access, aware of the silence in the room save for the strains of his song.

"_And her eyes are like the gleam,_

_Of the sunlight on the stream,_

_And the songs the chanters sing,_

_Are the songs she sings at milking._

_But my heart is full of woe,_

_For last night she bade me go,_

_And the tears begin to flow,_

_As I sing _–_ hi-ree, ho-row."_

Sebastian's voice trailed off on the last note as his fingers stilled, his eyes on her face. Celeste was chewing her lower lip, her fingers twisting against themselves as she met his eyes. He set aside the lute, aware that his face was now a deepening red as he hid behind his goblet, draining the last of his wine.

Varric cleared his throat, and the spell was broken, the others starting as though from a deep sleep. The dwarf shot Sebastian a look that spoke volumes before turning to the others.

"I didn't realize how late it actually was. It must be close to midnight." He made a show of stretching, his back giving a convincing _pop_ as he rose from his chair. "Should we open these gifts before we all fall asleep in our chairs?"

There was a murmur of assent, and Varric appointed himself the steward of the operation, handing out bundles after reading the tags. Several bottles of liquor were exchanged, always with the exclamation that the giver knew 'just what I wanted'; this was the norm for the group, Isabela in particular.

Fenris collected the most wine, and Sebastian worried that perhaps they were encouraging him to drink a little too much. He had gotten Fenris something a little different; a small book of simple verses of the Chant of Light, meant to teach younger children to read, was tucked into his pouch with curt thanks. Sebastian saw his fingers brush the pouch again when Fenris thought no one was looking and was satisfied the gift pleased.

Isabela shoved a book of her own choosing into Sebastian's hand, one look at the title had him setting it aside as soon as it was polite to do so. _The Priest and the Penitent Virgin, _indeed. She didn't draw attention to the gift, which was odd, but she accepted the ship in a bottle that Celeste handed her with good grace and a cheeky smile.

Gifts for Aveline had been harder to pick out; they had all put their heads together and gotten Ser Wesley's shield repaired and polished to a mirror shine. She swallowed hard around the wine she was drinking and took the shield, holding it in shaking hands as she stared at her face in the polished surface. She pulled Celeste in a hug when the mage laid a hand on her shoulder, her emotions clear.

"I thought you had sold it," she said, her voice cracking.

"No, I would never do that." Celeste shook her head, smiling as Aveline released her. "I know you already have your 'namesake' shield, but there's no reason we can't hang this one in the guard captain's office, right?"

Aveline nodded, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

* * *

At last, all the gifts had been exchanged, along with well-wishes. Sandal had fallen asleep on the floor, Cambert curled around the boy in a protective embrace. Bodahn shook his head as his attempts to wake his son were met with Sandal curling back up to use the Mabari as a pillow. Cambert gave a chuffing grumble, his stubby tail wagging as the boy hugged the dog in sleepy insistence.

"Leave him," said Varric. "That's the happiest I've ever seen him, and that kid gets pretty happy."

Merrill wobbled on her feet, and Varric pulled on his coat to escort her home. Isabela and Fenris had just wandered out the door, the looks they had been shooting each other for the latter half of the evening leaving nothing to the imagination. Anders had been the first to leave; he slipped into the kitchen to the cellars soon after getting his gifts. Sebastian would be uncharitable to say that the mage's presence was not missed, but the air had been much lighter without the sullen looks he had been getting all evening.

Aveline shrugged Wesley's shield onto her back, holding the door open for Varric to guide the tipsy Merrill out into the dark. The trio said their goodbyes as they wended their way homeward, Merrill tilting to the side as she leaned on Varric in the thick snowfall that was starting. Bodahn closed the door with a sigh.

"Is there aught that either of you need before I go to bed, messeres?" he asked, his glance shifting to his sleeping son before the fireplace.

"No, Bodahn, we're completely capable of fending for ourselves, should the need arise." Celeste reached into her pouch and pulled out a small coin purse, handing it to him.

"Messere, really, that's not necessary – "

"We go through this every year. For once, just take it with grace, Bodahn." She laughed, pressing it into his palm with firm conviction. He thanked her, tucking it into his belt as he left to check that all was well within the house before he retired.

Celeste's hand found his in the dimness of the room. He squeezed her fingers and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms about her and dropping a kiss to the bare shoulder that had taunted him all evening. He was rewarded with a small shiver.

"You know, I never gave you my gift," he said, his voice a murmur against her ear.

"Is that so?" she asked. "Well, to be fair, I have a gift for you as well."

"Then let's leave them be," he said, inclining his head to the sleeping dwarven child and his Mabari pillow. He took her hand, leading her up the stairs to her chambers. He crossed to the fireplace and stirred the embers, feeding the dying fire with another log as he heard the door shut behind her with a _click_. He looked up at her, aware of her presence in the quiet room all along his spine. She was soft in the firelight, her bangs mussed and hiding her eyes as she approached.

He rose, pulling the green leather pouch from his belt and holding it out to her. She took it, loosening the drawstring and spilling the links of silverite into her palm. He let her examine it for a moment, trying not to be too greedy for her reaction. The smile that lit her face as she held it up was worth the wait, and he took it from her, motioning for her to turn around. He fastened the clasp with fingers that shook far too much to be his own, running his fingers under the chain to settle it around her neck.

She brought her hand up to touch the little amber bird that rested just above the swell of her breasts, turning to smile at him. He brushed her lips with his and stepped back to admire the chain. He had been right; it suited her and had been worth every silver.

"It's lovely, Sebastian, thank you." Her smile faltered as she went to the side table, picking up something small wrapped in cloth. "I feel a little silly for doing this now."

He took the bundle, undoing the cloth tied at the corner and revealing a ripe orange, studded with cloves. The scent of citrus and the earthy spice of the cloves wafted up to his nose, evoking many memories of holidays long-past as he removed the handkerchief from the gift. The intent of her gift didn't escape him, and he hazarded a glance at her and saw her chewing her lower lip in what could only be a nervous fit. A blush was creeping onto her cheeks, and he could see the color was working its way onto her shoulders.

The thought of seeing how much of her body that blush could cover sent his pulse racing.

He raised his eyebrow in question. "Do you know what this means?"

"Someone explained the basics to me once." She gave a sheepish smile. "Mama had some books that talked about it, too."

His answering smile was warm as he drew her down to sit on the rug before the fire. "This is a Free Marches custom, although it's not practiced much anymore. Let me show you."

He handed the orange to her, his hand lingering on hers. "Take a clove and hold it in your hand, out in front of you with your palm down."

She did so, working the clove free with a little effort and turning her palm over. He held out his own hand, and she seemed aware of what to do at this point, bending over and gazing his knuckles with the flutter of her lips.

"A greeting offered, and a kiss received," he said. "Now, it would be your turn to gift the orange to whomever you wanted to get to know better."

Her hand hesitated only a moment as she held the orange out to him. He took it, working a clove free with his teeth and then removed the spice with his fingers. He brought her hand to his cheek and pressed her palm to his jaw.

"A greeting offered, a kiss on the cheek," he said, leaning forward and nuzzling her cheek before placing a kiss there. She laughed as he returned the orange to her. "That's a compliment, by the way. If someone returns that orange, they didn't get enough of you the first time."

"I can see there is subtlety in fruit that I never noticed before," she said, her gaze sending a bolt of lust sizzling down his spine. His return gaze felt a little predatory, but she didn't shy away from him.

"I am always happy to educate, sweetling," he said, his voice pitching itself lower. "Take another clove out, like I did."

She did, closing her lips over it on reflex. She knew this one, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips before returning the orange.

"A kiss offered in greeting, a more personal hello," he said.

He tugged another clove free from the orange with his teeth, this time displaying it for a moment before biting it in half and closing his lips over it. The taste of the clove spiced his tongue, and he leaned forward to capture her lips with his own. She opened her mouth at his urging, and he let her taste the earthy spice, kissing her at his leisure before breaking contact.

"A kiss offered in greeting from a lover, or a husband," he whispered, his fingers finding hers. She was flushed, her breathing heavy from being kissed with thoroughness, but she took the orange from him, seeming game for anything else.

She mimicked his movement, pulling a clove out with her teeth and showing it to him before grazing his lips with her own in timid invitation. He obliged, opening his lips to the heady taste of her flavored with the clove. They spent many moments like that, wrapped in each other before the fire, trading the orange between them. One by one, the cloves disappeared from the orange's rind, traded for sweet kisses that turned more and more heated.

Sebastian looked down to see that the orange had one clove left. His heart tripped double-time as he handed it to her, but stopped her from pulling the clove out.

"Wait, sweetling, before you do that." His thumb made a nervous track over her fingers. "That particular clove is special. That is one you offer to…proposition someone."

"What?" She looked down at her hands in confusion. "I don't understand."

He cleared his throat, brought back to earth by just how innocent she was. He brushed careful fingertips over her cheek. "The last clove is offered to a partner that you would like to spend the night with."

"Oh." That small sound was a reality check, sending the mood in the room from heated to awkward as she fumbled for a response. She took a deep breath and released it, saying nothing for a long moment.

He waited, wanting her to be sure, even as he was certain that the wait would undo him. A pressure built in his chest, nervous energy wanting to be free somehow, any way it could, but he forced himself to remain still. She glanced at him and then down, her fingers fidgeting under his own. She surprised him by handing him the orange, her smile returning.

"I think the choice should be yours, then," she said, closing his hands over the fruit. "After all, this is a big decision for you, too. You were released from your vows, but this is…"

She trailed off, blushing. He looked down at the fruit in his hands, the single clove a dark contrast to the ripeness of the rind. With deliberate care, he worked the clove free with his thumb and set it to the side, holding up the orange to show her. He broke the skin of the orange, peeling it even as she watched. The strip of rind dropped away to reveal the fruit underneath, and he broke the sections apart.

"Then I would like to, if you're willing. This is your choice as much as mine, remember that." When she nodded, he kissed her again with slow pleasure, the pressure in his chest gone at the first touch of her lips and the breathy sigh that whispered into his ears. He broke the kiss, picking up a piece of the orange and holding it up to her. She opened her mouth, and he slid the section past her lips, sure he was imagining the flicker of pink tongue that brushed his fingertips as she accepted it.

She seemed to take this as a cue, picking up a piece of orange of her own, breathing a slight sheen of frost onto it like she had with the pear. He remembered watching her do it, but this had a whole different tone, as though she were now aware of the effect she had on him. The chilled fruit brushed his lips and he shuddered as he took it. It burst upon his tongue with tangy sweetness as he watched her lick juice from her thumb.

The next piece he took for himself, brushing the fruit down the side of her neck and shoulder before feeding it to her. His lips followed the path that the orange took, pausing to lap at a drop of wayward juice. He nearly jumped from his skin as he felt her lips close over his fingertip, her tongue pressing against the pad and sending a groan coursing up from his belly to ricochet off her neck. This pleased her, sending her arching against his lips as he kissed her pulse.

They fed each other the remainder of the orange, savoring the fruit that was rare this time of year. His touches were bolder than hers, but hers spoke of an eagerness to learn that did her credit. As the last slice of orange disappeared, he rose, taking her to the wash basin and washing her hands free of the juice. He brought the now-clean fingers to his lips in reverence.

"How much do you know about this?" he asked, wanting to be frank with her. She blushed and looked down, taking her fingers back to twist them in the hem of her shirt.

"I know the mechanics, of course. I can't be a healer if I'm ignorant," she said.

"Then we'll take this as slowly as you want." _No matter if it might kill me or not._

He untwisted her hands from the hem of her shirt and placed them, palm down, on his chest. Green eyes darkened to near black with arousal as she slid her hands across the fabric, tracing the muscles of his chest. He gave a small sigh at her touch, holding himself still so that she could explore at her leisure.

She was bolder than he gave her credit for, however. The wandering hands tugged his shirt from where it was tucked into his pants and slid it upward to explore the flesh underneath. He sucked in a breath, his stomach giving a flip at the unexpected contact. The scrape of blunted nails along his sides forced a growl from him as he caught her hands in his, meeting her lips with his.

She was smiling when he broke the kiss. "So that was good?"

"Sweetling, let me show you how good." He took her in his arms then, his hands sliding under the fabric of her shirt to sweep up her belly and sides, brushing against her breast-band as she gave a small gasp and arched into his touch. He could feel the ridge of where the scar from the Arishok's blade began, but ignored it for the moment to feather his touch along her sides, teasing his fingers near her undergarments as he walked her over to the bed, raining kisses on her lips and neck.

Her fingers dug themselves into his shirt as he slid one hand from under her clothes to her hair, claiming her mouth and holding her to him. She melted against him, molding to fit his length in a way he'd only dreamed about during his time at the Chantry. He still wasn't sure if he were dreaming or not, drinking in the lingering flavor of orange and cloves on her tongue. When she whimpered against him and arched against his body, he gave a groan that she swallowed with eagerness, repeating the motion and making him break the kiss.

"Not so fast, love. You'll undo me before we even start." His fingertips brushed her chin before moving to the hem of her shirt. At his urging, she lifted her arms so that he could slide the tunic over her head. Her hands went to the scar, covering it, and he pushed them away with gentle fingers.

"Sebastian, don't…" Her protests were stilled as he knelt before her to look at the scar, tracing it with the callused tip of one finger.

"Hush," he said. "I already told you I wasn't going anywhere, and I meant it."

He placed a kiss where the scar began at her right hipbone, aware of the intake of breath as he did. He followed the length of it to where it dipped under her navel and traced a jagged line below the waist of her trousers, still pink and fresh.

"So brave," he whispered against the flesh of her stomach, and he placed a second kiss where he could see the scar end. He felt her shudder, and he looked up to see tears in her eyes. Fingers worked their way into his hair, brushing the scalp, and he took it as a sign of encouragement, pressing gentle hands against her side.

His hand slid up her back as he stood, kissing her again. He held her to him for a moment before cupping her face with his hands.

"I have no regrets, nothing to keep me from you, Celeste." His forehead touched hers. "I only wish that it had been me. I cannot bear to see you in pain."

She put her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that sent him reeling with her eagerness. He held her sides to steady himself, spinning off into the taste of her. He closed his eyes as he felt the slender arms about his neck release him, hands sliding down his chest to his shirt. He obliged her, stepping back and lifting the garment off to reveal his chest for her perusal.

She had seen it before, he knew, but this time was different. She came to him as a lover, not a healer, and her touch sent sparks down his spine as she traced the light dusting of coppery hair that grew across his chest and thinned to a trail down the plane of his stomach. She ran a fingertip down his belly and he groaned; the touch was torture from the desire that coiled inside him. He was hard and aching for her, but he knew that this, of anything he had ever done, should not be rushed. He busied himself with the fastening of her breast-band, loosening it and slipping it free from her chest.

He dropped a kiss to her shoulder, running his fingers along the underside of her breasts, drawing a breathy sigh from her. That sigh was the one that broke him. He lifted her, turning and depositing her on the bed in a flurry of kisses. He removed her shoes and kicked off his boots, crawling up onto the tick with her, his palm sliding up her belly as he moved, following a trail his lips left.

She arched against his hand, her fingers moving to work her belt free. It came loose with a jangle of the buckles, but she shoved it away as he did the same for his own belt. She drew him up to her for a kiss, as desperate for his touch as he was to touch her, the last vestiges of nervousness gone with the reality of the mattress under her. He kissed her collarbone, nipping and soothing the bite with his tongue as she whimpered, her thighs rubbing together in desperate friction. When he finally took one of her pinkened nipples into his mouth, she sighed his name with such satisfaction that he felt his hips jerk in response.

Maker, it _had_ been a long time. He felt his resolve weaken and he laved her nipple with his tongue, rolling the hardening peak past his lips and suckling, her whimper sending a surge of possessiveness through him. He released her, blowing a breath of warm air across the moisture there and was rewarded with a moan.

His hand skimmed her stomach, clever fingers sliding under the waistband of her skirts to the vee of curls beneath her smallclothes. The whimper became a whine as he found the bead of heated flesh there, grazing it with his thumb as he pressed his finger against her entrance, the sensation causing her to buck against him hard enough to drive herself onto him to the first knuckle. He let out an amazed breath at the tightness there, easing his finger in with a slow thrust.

She let out a gasp and laced her fingers in his hair as his thumb found her nub again, circling as he thrust his finger once more.

"Sebastian, I – " She threw her head back with another whine, and he released her, pressing a kiss to her sternum before repositioning himself between her knees. She parted them readily, allowing him to peel her skirts from her hips and slide them down her legs, her smallclothes coming with them. He pulled one leg over his shoulder and kissed the inside of her knee, praying that his patience would last. When his mouth touched the outer lips of her sex, it was only his grip on her legs that kept her from arching off the bed.

He was merciless, pressing his mouth against the taste of her, his eyes on her face as she watched him with an expression of dazed awe. Her head dropped back to the pillow again as his tongue found her center and suckled there, a finger pressing into her entrance again as she trembled under his touch. Her hands fisted in the coverlet as she wailed, a low keen punctuated by the thrust of his finger inside of her. He felt her tighten around his finger as her knees locked, her chest heaving as she spun over the edge.

His face was the picture of smug satisfaction as he took in her glazed expression, the soft contentment spreading over her features as she came down from the high. He slid his trousers from his hips, freeing himself at last as he moved to cover her. The surprise on her face was countered by his kiss as he positioned himself at her entrance. He felt her tense and paused, his instinct bitten back by his desire to reassure her.

"Sweetling, I will not lie to you. This will hurt, but the pain will be fleeting." He met her eyes, his brows drawn down in worry. "Do you trust me?"

She took a shuddering breath, her skin still flushed, and nodded. "All right."

He hilted himself within her, her gasp of pain fleeting as he held himself steady above her, balanced on his forearms. Her eyes squeezed shut for a brief moment as she adjusted to him, and he grit his teeth for patience. Her breathing slowed, and he chanced a slow thrust, surprised when her hips rose to meet him. She had her lip between her teeth in concentration, and she met his thrust again as he moved.

"Where did you learn that?" he asked, surprised he still had his wits about him.

"I said I knew the mechanics," she said, her answering smile earning her a kiss.

He began the slow rhythm again, her inner walls rippling around him as she met him halfway, responding to his shifts and changes. He sped up, feeling the thread of his own desire tightening in his belly, and he reached between them, his fingers pressing against her until she was shuddering into another climax, his own not far behind as she cried out. Her legs tightened around him as he found his own release with a muffled groan, spilling himself deep within her as he bit down on her neck.

He kissed her shoulder, struggling to move aside so as not to squash her under his boneless bulk. He managed it, pulling her up next to him and fumbling the blankets over their bodies. She wriggled closer, pressing a kiss to his chest as he rested a possessive hand on her hip, his thumb brushing her scar as they drifted into sleep.

Outside, snow drifted over Kirkwall in a muffling blanket.


	13. Sacrilege

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Thirteen: Sacrilege

* * *

Sebastian woke before dawn, warm and languid in the shared heat of the fire and her bed. She was pressed against him, her leg slung over his hips. His hand still rested in a possessive touch over her waist, his other arm asleep from where he'd been lying on it. Her hands were curled against his chest, and he let out a soft breath at the thought that he wasn't to wake in the Chantry, cold and alone in a narrow bed.

_Never again_, came the thought. He placed a kiss at the curve of her shoulder, smiling against her skin as she snuffled in sleep and snuggled closer. He rolled to his back, arranging her against his chest as he tried to flex more feeling into his numbed arm. She burrowed into his side, tousled red hair soft against his bare chest, and he breathed in, a wave of contentment he had never felt before washing over him.

Everything he was would change now, he was sure. Already his mind was spinning with the sheer amount of work he would have to do in order to retake his home. If he had been less firm in his convictions, the prospect would have terrified him. He had been released from his vows to the Chantry, only to step into a new set of vows, sworn to himself. He would give her everything, and he would ensure their future together.

He could do no less for her. His thoughts chased themselves in and out, even as his arm began the painful tingling that indicated the blood was rushing back to the limb. He went over strategies, mulling over his options.

Thomas Vael was a bastard, he knew from his few interactions with his cousin. He had stopped the elder Vael from beating a horse to death once, punching him hard in the jaw and snapping the crop in two against his thigh. His parents hadn't been happy with his actions, but they had backed him when Thomas had demanded him punished. Now, he had no family to aid him against Thomas, but he did not fear the arrogant brute. He would outsmart him, by planning with care, and asking his companions for help.

He became occupied with thoughts of troop movements, doing the mental calculations necessary of a commander, counting and dividing supplies amongst imaginary regiments as he stared at the ceiling. He would need mercenaries in the beginning, until the militia realized that he intended to retake the seat, and then he was sure he could bank on most remembering his parents, drawing their loyalty. As much as he hated the viper's nest of politics, it was what he had been born into, and it was easy to slip back under the murky waters of nobility.

Deep in thought as he was, he was still very aware when she stirred, lazy fingers sweeping down his chest and drawing his thoughts away from other matters. A smile quirked his lips when she nuzzled against him for a moment before stretching, the soft skin of her thigh brushing against his own. He felt himself stir, but didn't move, knowing she would be sore from the night before.

He lifted his head from the pillows to see dark green eyes regarding him from under a fringe of red hair. His thumb brushed against her lips, his smile widening at her.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning." She wriggled closer, pillowing her head on his shoulder. "No regrets this morning, no fervent prayers for forgiveness?"

"Why would I have regrets for something that the Maker has seen fit to give me?" His tone was arch, and his hand stroked down her back, making her hum with pleasure. "I could never regret this."

"Famous last words," she said, smiling at him before pressing her lips to his chest. "I just wanted to offer you a way out if you did."

"Celeste." He turned serious, and her eyes flicked up to him. "When I said I would stay, I meant it. Don't take this so lightly. I want no other."

"And that makes me glad." She gave a slow nod, rolling onto her belly next to him and propping herself up on her arms. "There is going to be a lot of unrest in the city with the Viscount dead."

"This is true. But we will see it through, I am sure. They won't wait long to choose a new one."

She sighed. "Meredith will probably step in herself."

"She might. Frankly, I think you would be better suited for the role."

She blinked at him. "You must have forgotten what I am. There's no way the Divine would allow it. Magic is meant to serve man, never to rule over him."

The bitter twist to her lips set his stomach roiling, threatening the plans he had been making all morning. "The people would rather someone they trust, someone they know working for the good of the city, than someone who claims to be doing it. In times of trouble, the people will look to their leaders for guidance."

"Sebastian, I would never be allowed to rule any city, let alone Kirkwall. The people would never accept a mage, no matter how many times I save them from something looming. I'm not the Hero of Ferelden. I can't be the leader that these people want."

"You'd be the leader they need, though." He rubbed the length of her jaw with his fingertips. "With the right amount of time, even the Divine Justinia would see it. I have heard that she is a reasonable woman."

"This isn't a petition to revoke some policy. This is asking Thedas to change its views on mages altogether. You would start a revolution, and the only one who would be happy about it would be Anders."

He scowled. "I'm not trying to start a revolution. What I want is to see fair treatment for the people in this city, since the rulers before had no view for the common man. There is a lot of suffering you might ease."

"Were I anything but what I am, I might consider it. But it's far too early in the morning to think about it at all, much less give you the number of reasons as to why it wouldn't work." She gave him a sly smile, one that sent a sliver of heat coiling through his belly. "Besides, we can waste away the morning doing other things that are far more productive."

"You're avoiding the discussion, and that's not like – " his voice cut off into a growl as she nipped at his neck, her teeth sending a shiver throughout him. Wandering hands slid under the blanket, trailing past his stomach and down to his nethers. He caught her wrist, but not before she circled the hardening length, her hand curious with inexperience. He hissed in a breath, willing himself still.

"Much more interesting line of discussion," she said, her voice a purr. "Don't you agree?"

"You're sore," he said, swallowing a gulp of air to calm himself. "Don't feel like you are obligated to do this."

"Love, did I _say_ I was sore?" She smiled at him. "You have a lot to learn about living with a healer."

She nipped his shoulder again, and he lost the train of coherent thought as she straddled his lap, her rump pressing against him. She wiggled, and he growled again, hands seeking her hips. She stared down at him with an intensity he had never seen before, palms braced against his chest before she leaned down to touch her lips to his. One hand rested in the small of her back as she caressed him with lips and teeth and tongue.

She sat back up when air became a necessity again, the blanket falling away from her shoulders and leaving her bare to the cold of the room. She shivered, and he took the opportunity to lift her off him and roll her to the side, balancing above her on his forearms. She kissed him as his fingers wandered between them, and his touch didn't elicit a wince, convincing him at last of the truth of her words.

She welcomed him into her body with a sigh of pleasure accompanied by the lifting of her hips. Her hands swept his chest, settling on his shoulders as he began a slow, rolling rhythm. It was languid, slow and sweet as a trickle of honey, and he placed nipping, suckling kisses on her breasts and neck as he moved. She closed her eyes, head flung back in pleasure, and he licked at the line of her throat, in no hurry to speed the slow coil of pressure building up. It was no less intense than the night before, and he wanted to make the sensation last. He watched her, riding the crest of his torpid arousal as they moved.

Her release came on a sigh, her hips arching into him as he rode out the storm of her clenching thighs and channel, and he followed soon after, tumbling into that sweet, languorous afterglow as though it was waiting for him to be complete. His hands swept her sides as he shifted off of her, pulling her against him as he kissed her temples.

"That is a very eloquent argument," he said, his voice a murmur in the quiet room.

"I thought so," she said, and he chuckled at how smug she sounded.

* * *

Breakfast was interrupted by a courier, with a letter addressed to him in Varric's looping scrawl.

_Choir Boy,_

_Almost forgot to give you your Satinalia gift. My sources say that the Flint Company was hired by the Harimann family, currently headed by the Lady Harimann. The records in one of their warehouses show the transfer of funds, highly suspicious on the date it was done – the warehouse was closed for repairs. Bad business, that. You know where to find me if you want me in on this._

_Varric Tethras_

The rest of the letter gave details of the Harimann family, names and ages as well as their locations in the city. All of it was information he didn't need – he knew where to find them.

They had been friends and allies, after all.

He folded the parchment, setting it aside with a grimace. Deeper and deeper the treachery went, and he could not see the end of it. Anger swirled through him, cloying and thick like drying blood, and he felt his mouth pinch as he considered his options.

Once again, her hands broke through his reverie, resting on his shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze. He leaned back into her embrace, letting out a breath as she kissed his forehead. She stood like that for a moment before speaking.

"We can have words with Lady Harimann this afternoon. Varric's been wrong on occasion."

"Never on something so important." He took one of her hands in his. "I appreciate your support in all of this."

"I will always support you, Sebastian," she said, her smile breaking through the somber mood. "In whatever you require."

He gave her hand a squeeze. "All I require is you, sweetling, and I have that. I need nothing else."

"You need closure," she said. "I will make sure you have it today."

* * *

The Harimann estate was like Sebastian remembered, tall and imposing in the chill winter air. They had come upon it in the afternoon, watery sunlight bathing them in the remnants of warmth as they knocked. The door opened with a creak, revealing no one inside to greet them.

"Lady Harimann?" Sebastian called, glancing into side rooms and parlors as they walked. "Flora?"

They worked their way through the mansion, encountering debauchery and greed in their basest forms. Celeste bore it well, her jaw tightening at the sight of Ruxton Harimann and his companion as she turned away. He took her hand, squeezing her fingers.

"I didn't mean to expose you to such things," he said.

"Sebastian, I can feel the presence of something dark. Probably demonic. These people are possessed, and not to be blamed for their actions." She shook her head. "There's nothing to apologize for, I'm hardly offended."

"Possession?" Varric asked, glancing around. "How can you tell?"

"Normally, prudes wouldn't be telling someone to use a feather." Sarcasm was laced thick in her voice. "That, and the whole abandoned house smacks of possession. Where are the servants, the rest of the family?"

"You have a point, Hawke." He holstered Bianca to pick a lock. He grunted in satisfaction when the chest opened, rummaging through it. "But I didn't think that demons could possess non-mages."

"Demons can possess anyone, if the Veil is thin," she said. "Father told me that if someone has an emotion that is strong enough to pull a demon from the Fade, and the Veil is thin enough, that person runs the risk of possession. Mages are simply at more risk because of our constant connection to the Fade."

"The Veil is that thin in Kirkwall?" Aveline asked, her eyes flicking to dark corridors and archways.

"Have you seen the sheer amount of death and despair in the City of Chains, Aveline? If the Veil _isn't_ thin here, I would be surprised." Celeste shook her head.

"If it's possession, Sebastian, I may not be able to arrest Lady Harimann without proof of her treachery."

He tightened his hand on his bow. "As you will, Aveline. I understand you have your duties. I will ask that you keep an eye out for any proof that she hired the Flint Company to murder my family."

"I could do no less," she said with a tight smile.

The upper floors of the estate remained abandoned, but they found the proof they needed in the study adjoining the master bedroom. Receipts lay scattered across the floor, and searching through the bits of parchment revealed a history of paying bribes to officials, buying poisons and other dubious items, and even paying mercenaries, the Flint Company included. Aveline tucked these into her belt pouch, nodding at Sebastian. Varric gave a low whistle and stuffed other documents into his pouch, shaking his head.

"The guild's not going to be happy about this…"

The only place left unsearched in the large mansion was the cellars. They descended the steps to find Flora Harimann weaving on her feet, a bottle of Antivan brandy in her hand. She turned on them, smiling in bleary recognition.

"Sebastian Vael," she slurred. "What a pleasant surprise to see you out of the confessional. Have you come to visit me before I'm married off to your cousin?"

"Thomas? He has a wife, Flora." His brow wrinkled in confusion as she tossed her head back and laughed.

"Oh, you _are_ out of the loop. The Vael cousins are passing the throne around like a doxy at a gentleman's club. You're too much of a prude now to take a shot at it, aren't you? Goran holds the seat now."

"Goran?" Sebastian was flabbergasted. Goran Vael was a weak-willed, malleable man controlled first by his mother, and then by his friends. How could he be sitting on the throne to Starkhaven, and what was happening to his people? The knowledge left him cold. "How has this happened?"

"Mother wanted it. She wanted Goran to marry me so that I would be a princess. Isn't that nice for her?" She took a hefty swig from the bottle. "I think he's a prat, myself. I'd much rather marry someone attractive."

Her eyes settled on him with lazy focus once again. "You're not attached at the moment, though, and you're far better built than your cousin. How about you and I talk to mother? We can arrange a more…formal alliance between our houses."

"Flora, you've been drinking –" He tried to stumble back as she reached for his belt, a sly smile on her lips as the brandy bottle slipped from her fingers to land in the dirt of the cellar floor with a soft clunk. She was tenacious in her efforts, and he scrambled backwards.

She tripped over the haft of Celeste's staff as the mage stepped in, her eyes snapping in anger. Flora tumbled to the dirt with a shriek, rolling over to rise only to freeze as the bladed end of the staff embedded itself into the ground inches from her head.

"You're lucky. I'm being lenient because I have a sneaking suspicion you're possessed. You will keep your hands off my companion from now on, or I will remove them, from him and from you. Am I clear?"

Flora blinked in confusion. "Who are you to talk to me like that?"

"The name's Hawke. My mother was an Amell, and that makes me nobility, the same as you."

"The Champion…" Flora said, reaching for her bottle. Celeste kicked it out of the way, sending it skittering across the floor.

"That's a party foul, Hawke." Varric said. "That was good brandy."

"I'll buy you a case of it later, Varric." She returned her gaze to Flora. "Don't touch any more of the brandy, and stay here. Are you all right, Sebastian?"

"Ah, yes," he said, clearing his throat in embarrassment. He hadn't wanted to hurt Flora, but Celeste had no such loyalties. "Everything but my pride is intact."

"Oh, you'll be fine, then." She grinned at him, and he saw the same surge of possessiveness he felt for her in her eyes. It was gratifying, and not a little overwhelming. "Aveline, will you tie her hands?"

"If it keeps her from the drink, then that's the best course of action."

He knelt beside her once she was secured to the support pillar. "Flora, where is Lady Harimann?"

"Mother's below. She'll come up when she's ready for me to marry, she said."

"Below? There is more to the cellar now?"

"She's been digging deeper and deeper every day. I don't know why."

This was odd behavior indeed. Sebastian agreed with the look Celeste shot him – there was something at work here, and it could only be demonic in nature. They left Flora wriggling against her bonds and descended lower. Here, the smooth brick walls of the cellar gave way to dark earth, the way lit with torches that spat and guttered between twisting roots of trees.

It was here that Celeste's suspicions were confirmed. Demons prowled the floors, pouncing upon them in the tight corridors. They fought, Aveline leading with her shield and dispatching the monsters with efficiency. It was brutal, and every turn was plagued with roars and hissing laughter.

It was enough to drive anyone to madness, and Sebastian feared that madness was indeed what had gripped his mother's old friend. The chill that rimed his soul grew colder as they descended, passing bodies of servants and guards, cast aside like macabre playthings. Lady Harimann was in grave danger, if she were not the perpetrator of this insanity. He wanted to believe she was not; it hurt his heart to think that the Vael's longtime allies would betray them.

The tunnel sloped ever downward, leveling out and widening after some time. The ceiling of this new room was high and lit with more torches, although the excavation was still rough. He could hear two voices as they pressed to the back of the room, both female.

"You must give me more power!" said one. "I must, _must_ marry Flora to Goran Vael and solidify our hold. Starkhaven refuses to bend."

"Your power is already great, mistress. You have sacrificed your friends, your husband, and even your children to achieve your ends. What else will you give?" The second voice was low, pitched to the male ear – he had heard many women use the same tone to do as they pleased – and he felt a cold shiver wrack his body. "What else would you do to achieve your dreams?"

They rounded the corner, weapons at the ready. He recognized the bent form of Lady Harimann, once beautiful and vibrant. Her hair was matted with sweat and dried blood, and the dark circles around her eyes bespoke of long nights without sleep. Her robes were filthy, and he could barely make out the Harimann crest embroidered in gold on the back. She turned as they approached, the clank of Aveline's armor giving her warning.

"Who is this?" she asked, squinting at them. Her eyes widened as she saw him, and she backed up a step. "Sebastian?"

"Lady Harimann, why?" he asked, his voice hoarse with the rage that choked him. "You were my mother's friend. How could you murder her?"

"Such an ugly word. I prefer 'removing the only obstacle between her and her dreams'." The sibilant, sultry voice echoed from the shadows around them, and Lady Harimann's companion revealed herself at last. The desire demon slunk from the darkness, breasts swaying with an exaggerated twitch of her hips. He nocked an arrow.

"This was _your_ doing, then."

She laughed, a beautiful sound that held an undercurrent of amusement far more sinister than the surface implied. "I could create such desires, if I wished, but it's far easier to nurture those that already exist. The desire for power is easy to find. You and your friend both possess it, do you not? You _both_ wish to rise."

"I don't make deals with demons, and I _don't_ crave anything you have to offer." Celeste had a firm grip on her staff, her hands ablaze.

"How loyal are your friends to you? Everyone has a price. Everyone wants..._something_." She passed a glance over the others, her smile rife with promise.

"Do not listen to her!" he called, eyes fixed on her as he drew the fletching to his cheek.

She made a moue of her full lips, the black sclera of her eyes resting on him at last. "Oh, such a _pious_ soul, masking so much ambition. Are you so different from my lady? You yearn for the same lands, the same power."

"I am the rightful heir! She is a usurper and murderer." He shook his head, trying to clear it of whatever the desire demon was doing to him. His sight was growing muzzy, dimming in the weak torchlight.

"You swore to put aside worldly goods and ambitions, but they couldn't stop you from wanting them." She smiled then, her form shimmering to that of Celeste, the dark sclera of her eyes the only thing indicating that she wasn't his beloved. She ran her hands across her breasts in a wanton display, her lower lip between her teeth as she fixed him with those eyes. "Your vows couldn't stop you from wanting her. How many nights did you lie awake in the Chantry, giving thought to your desire for her body?"

"Leave her out of this, demon." He shook his head again, slower this time. "I'm not acting from ambition. I only want what's best for my people."

"For the people who'll adore you? All those smiles they used to save for your brother, now you'll be the shining prince."

His vision tunneled, narrowing away from Celeste and the others, and then he saw it.

_The city of Starkhaven sat placid on the banks of the Minanter River, and the citadel of Arrow's Rest was bedecked in his family colors, flying proud above the battlements once more. The banners and pennants snapped in the breeze, revealing an addition to it – the Amell crest, uniting their houses forevermore. Celeste stood with him on the balcony as the people cheered them both, for she had just birthed their son, Malcolm._

_She looked at him, her eyes shining with adoration as she presented the babe to him. Red hair like his mother, his own bright blue eyes and nose, the babe gave a yawn as he lifted Malcolm for the crowd. The crowns adorning their heads glinted in the sunlight as the crowd roared its approval for the rulers of Starkhaven, soon the rulers of the whole of the Free Marches. They were uniting the Marches in a common goal – freedom and education for mages who wished to live in peace, as Celeste and he did._

_The Circle was now a place of learning, offering education and understanding for all, not just the mages. Templars were for helping the mages protect themselves and their families from rogue mages that wished to abuse their powers and harm the innocent. No one lived in fear, and many flocked to the city to become a part of the shining army of Starkhaven, a beacon of light that far outshone the Imperium and the Chantry itself. Exalted Marches had broken upon their doorstep and spun away, battered, in the force of their conviction. All bent knee to the Prince and Princess, their faces happy, well-fed, and clean._

_His wife looked to him again, smiling that particular smile that made his heart clench in his chest. "All we have worked for, everything we have accomplished – does it please you?"_

_He nodded. "Truly, I could not imagine being happier."_

"_What would you do to keep it?" she asked._

"_Anything, you know this."_

_She smiled, her eyes again returning to the black sclera of the desire demon. "You can have everything you want, all of it. Children, a loving wife, your kingdom. _All you have to do is kill anyone in your way._"_

"**No!**" he roared, breaking from the illusion with the force of his anger. He drew the arrow again to his jaw, the fletching brushing his cheek and assuring him he was once again in his right mind. "Silence, temptress. _Your_ whispers led our allies astray. _You're_ the only one I must kill!"

He fired, the demon battering away the arrow as if it were a child's toy as she laughed. Roars and snarls from the shadows heralded more demons as Lady Harimann began casting a spell. He fired another arrow as Aveline charged forward, her shield connecting with the noble's face to interrupt the spell. Bianca gave another ratcheting clank as a burst of bolts peppered the area, pinning demons with howls to the floor. Fire rained from the ceiling as Celeste unleashed her anger on the desire demon's head, lightning following soon after with the smell of ozone joining the scent of sulfur as she hurled balls of fire and ice at everything around her, limned in the green glow of her paralyzation rune.

Sebastian was fury itself, his arrows finding eyes and faces. He sent wave after wave of demons back to the Fade, his teeth bared in a snarl that they would _dare_ tempt him. Red and blue fletchings sprouted from throats and shoulders, sending them sprawling as they snarled in rage. The arms of his grandfather's bow creaked with the force of his draw, the arrows punching through carapace into soft vitals. He aided Aveline, picking off the stragglers as she bellowed a challenge at them.

The desire demon flitted within range, laughing as she tried to bring her claws to bear on Celeste. Sebastian would have none of it. He fired again, his hands a blur. Four arrows pierced the demon, one gouging a deep line in her stomach, and as she turned, burying into shoulder and throat; the screech of anger became a bloody gurgle as the clawed hands tried to get at the wounds. Varric shouted something, and then Bianca came to their aid, a bolt punching deep into the desire demon's gut. Black bile boiled from her lips as she was smashed to the ground by Aveline.

The roar of battle ceased to near quiet; the only sound their labored breathing. Lady Harimann sprawled, lifeless, near the body of the desire demon. Sebastian resisted the urge to spit upon the corpse, instead closing her eyes and commending her soul to the Maker, as wicked as she was. He bowed his head, not feeling the closure he thought he would. Celeste's hand squeezed his shoulder, and he looked up. Her grim expression softened, and she offered her hand.

They left that place of evil and death, each with their own wounds, Sebastian was sure.

* * *

He did not feel guilty for slipping out to the Chantry while she bathed. His soul was disquiet, and he wanted the chance to pray. He was still a regular visitor to the Chantry, every few days dropping coins in the poor box and listening to the Chant to calm his mind. He was more settled than ever in his new life with Celeste; as scary as it was, he had never been this content as a brother.

He offered a few coins at the door, easing into the cathedral in the evening quiet. Vespers were long over, the penitent souls seeking their beds for the evening. A few cloistered sisters ghosted through the wide area and greeted him as he knelt before the statue of Andraste. He felt unclean, for all of the things that the desire demon had offered had left him covered in an indelible stain of filth. He clasped his hands and bowed his head.

The words spilled from his lips as they always had, but never had he meant them more.

"_O Maker, hear my cry: _

_Guide me through the blackest nights _

_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked _

_Make me to rest in the warmest places. _

_O Creator, see me kneel: _

_For I walk only where You would bid me _

_Stand only in places You have blessed _

_Sing only the words You place in my throat _

_My Maker, know my heart _

_Take from me a life of sorrow _

_Lift me from a world of pain _

_Judge me worthy of Your endless pride _

_My Creator, judge me whole: _

_Find me well within Your grace _

_Touch me with fire that I be cleansed _

_Tell me I have sung to Your approval _

_O Maker, hear my cry: _

_Seat me by Your side in death _

_Make me one within Your glory _

_And let the world once more see Your favor _

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world _

_And comfort is only Yours to give._"

He was aware of a voice speaking counterpoint to his halfway through. He opened his eyes as he finished, raising his head to see Celeste kneeling next to him, her head bowed as well. He sucked in his breath, and she looked at him, her eyes haunted.

"I see we had the same idea," she said, rising and moving to one of the pews in the quiet cathedral. He followed, his curiosity piqued. "I never get over dealing with a desire demon. They twist everything you could ever want and hand it to you on a silver platter."

"Yes," he said, settling himself next to her with his hands dangling between his knees. He felt her smaller fingers pull his hand to her, and she squeezed his palm. "I saw Starkhaven, and a new freedom and happiness for you and my people."

"It's all a lie. They take and take until there's nothing left to give. They love mages, for we have more to give than many." She looked away, her fingers drawing circles on the back of his hand.

"This is what you must face every day? This…temptation?" he asked, his voice hushed.

She nodded. "That is what it is like to be a mage. Constant vigilance will only protect you so far. You have to learn to fight for control, and maintain it at all times."

"I feel filthy, like I will never come clean again. It felt so _real_."

"You did well. She offered, and you refused. I'm proud of you." Her face was wan in the candlelight, and he kissed her knuckles and rose.

"We should get home," he said, pulling her up into his arms for a moment before walking her to the door. He paused in the vestibule, the question burning on his lips. "Celeste…what did she show you?"

She pushed open the heavy door, bathing her in the rising moonlight before she spoke. "She showed me our children."

Kirkwall was bathed in a heavy silence as the two made their way through Hightown and to their bed. He held her in his arms as she slumbered, his hand resting over the jagged scar that ran over her hip toward the juncture of her thighs. The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was the feel of the mark under his fingertips, and the dampness of his cheeks.


	14. Spiral

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Fourteen: Spiral

* * *

"Messeres," Bodahn said, a cursory knock on the doorjamb announcing his presence. "The Warden Carver is here to see his sister."

Sebastian put down the book he was reading, standing to give the siblings privacy. Celeste nodded at him, and rose from the writing desk to greet her little brother.

Carver was taller than he remembered, corded with thick muscle as he crossed the library floor. There was tension all along the man's frame, and Sebastian crossed around the couch to get to Celeste's side. He didn't like the set of the Warden's mouth.

She turned with a glass of wine in her hand for her brother, a smile lighting her face as she saw him. The crystal decanter crashed against the wall into tinkling, wine-soaked shards as Carver slapped it out of her hands.

"Carver, what – "

"You _know_ what. Six months. _Six months _and I never heard from my sister about my mother. Do you know who finally wrote to me? Gamlen! My sodding drunken _lech_ of an uncle had to tell me that my mother was dead. I was in Ostwick two weeks ago, and I haven't stopped riding since."

"Carver," she said, and he made an angry gesture, silencing her.

"No, Ceelee. Not this time. This time, _I'm_ going to talk, and _you_," he said, pointing a thick finger at her. "You are going to listen."

She compressed her lips, brows drawing down into a scowl as Sebastian moved to stand beside her.

"Do you know what Father told me once?" he asked. "He told me that once I was supposed to protect you, Ceelee. He said it was my duty to my family."

"He told me the same thing, Carver." Celeste said. "He said the same thing about you and Beth."

"Fat lot of good that advice did you then," he said. "You didn't do anything when Beth died."

"I know," she said. "It was my fault. I should have been the one to stand with Mother."

Sebastian opened his mouth to interrupt, but she held up a hand. He kept his peace, trusting her.

"And so my big sister, the lucky one, gets to live in the big house, all alone." Carver glanced between them, his lip curling at Sebastian. "Or maybe not."

"Carver, listen to yourself. Is this what you wanted? You wanted to come here to start a fight? Really?" She folded her arms. "Just because I'm the last one left doesn't mean I'm perfect, or lucky."

"Really, Champion?" Carver met her steady gaze. "Because you seem pretty damned lucky to me. All the wealth, all the prestige, and all you had to do was let Mother die."

"I didn't let her die, Carver." Celeste took a breath. Her voice shook. "The trail had gone cold on that man years before. When he took her, we were right behind her. If we had come an hour, half an hour sooner, we could have saved her. I did everything I could. I didn't _let_ her die."

"You did!" Carver stepped forward, his face coming close to his sister's. "What else would you call it, traipsing around the city while Mother was slaughtered? What did you do that day, Ceelee? Did you drink at the Hanged Man with Varric? Play cards? Mother breathed her last while you took the trump, I bet."

Celeste's hand snapped up, her fist connecting with Carver's jaw. To Sebastian's surprise, her brother staggered. He fell back and tripped into a chair, the wood collapsing with a crunch at his unexpected weight. He sprawled on the floor, dazed. Celeste stood over him, shaking out her hand.

"I've had enough of the petty little brother act, Carver. I'm sorry that you feel inadequate, even when you live away from me. I'm sorry you're angry about Mother's death. If it's any consolation, her murderer is rotting under Lowtown. We didn't even bother to burn him."

"Celeste," Sebastian said. She turned to him, a reassuring smile on her face.

"I'm sorry you have to witness the family quarrel, Sebastian, but since you're practically family, you'd better get used to it." She turned back to Carver, who was still prone on the floor, staring up at her. "Carver will always be the little brother, because he will always _refuse to grow up_."

"I'm – "

"Shut up, Carver, and listen to me." Her voice was quiet, but it held the deadly edge of calm that meant Celeste was as serious as a thunderclap. "I am not holding you back. Ever since we left Lothering, you've been whining that you've been forced to live in my shadow. I haven't forced you to do anything."

She stepped over the ruins of the chair. "You chose to come on the Deep Roads expedition. Even then, you had something to prove. No doubt you would have done something stupid if I told you to stay home with Mother like she wanted. I wouldn't put it past you to join the Templars if I left you to your own devices, just to spite me."

Carver set his jaw, and she nodded. "I thought so."

"You made me join the Wardens."

"I didn't make you do anything, Carver. It was your choice to follow me into the dark, and it made me responsible for you. You asked me to help. You _asked_. You were dying of the taint in an abandoned thaig. What did you expect me to do? A knife in the dark isn't release, brother, and if Anders hadn't been there, that's where you'd be. Dead in the dark."

She dropped to one knee next to him, even as he propped himself up on his elbows to look at her.

"You didn't even tell me that you survived. I had to hear it second-hand from Mother. Not once did you write. Why did it take Gamlen six months to contact you?"

"How should I know? I'm not Gamlen's keeper. All he said was that Mother was dead and that it was your fault."

"Carver, do you really think I would let mother die? Do you think I wouldn't tear Kirkwall apart to keep her safe?"

Carver's face was set into hard lines, and he would not meet his sister's eyes.

"Maker's breath, Carver, do you really think I'm heartless? Everything I did, every single step, I did for the family." She ran a hand through her hair, blowing out an exasperated breath. "Carver, had I wanted any of you to die, I would have left you in Lothering. I've given everything for you and Beth and mother."

"Are you looking for thanks?"

"No. I don't expect it. I did what I did because you're my family." She frowned. "You're all I have left. Gamlen won't even speak to me, even though I found his daughter for him. I…might have broken his jaw, though."

Carver put a hand to his jaw, rubbing at the swelling bruise. "You sound like Father."

"Someone has to be the adult around here."

"You hit me."

"You needed it. I could have hit you harder, and you know it. There was barely any force magic behind that one." She gave him a long-suffering look. "Besides, you broke my decanter. That was expensive."

"You can afford it. What good am I if I don't cost you at least a little money?" He gave a bitter laugh.

"Bastard."

"Whiner." It sounded as if they'd had this exchange before, from the fondness behind the words.

"Oaf."

"Squirt."

"Carver." Her smile was genuine this time, with no more strain behind it. His smile was as well, and he got to his feet with her help. "I did all I could to help Mother. You know that. You also know how she thought the best of everyone she met. No one would dare hurt a noble in Mother's fantasy world, especially not Leandra Amell, the belle of Kirkwall."

"I know," he said, his voice breaking. "She was so determined to get back what she left that she didn't realize that things change."

"Father wasn't here to talk her out of it. And I didn't know how. You know how stubborn she is…was."

Her voice cracked, and Carver pulled her into a hug, his harness creaking. Sebastian made a quiet exit. He was sure the worst was over, and they had much to talk about.

* * *

He was in the kitchen when Carver found him, elbow deep in flour. He kneaded the bread he was intent on baking, allowing Carver time to find the words, his eyes on his work.

"Baking?" Carver said, settling himself next to the hearth in a chair. "I never figured you for a baker."

"The Chantry teaches us many skills, Carver." Sebastian let himself smile at the younger Hawke. "I learned to bake bread from the cook there when it was my turn to help do charitable works for the poor. Sure, I might have bought bread, but with the skills to make the bread, the money I use can feed a lot more people. It sort of…took off from there, and I discovered a hidden talent for baking."

Carver gave him an appraising look. Sebastian knew it well. He was being sized up, judged worthy or not by an overprotective brother. He'd seen it before, and had fallen far short of the mark in the past.

"So."

"So?" He tried to keep his tone neutral, and kept his face bland. He didn't want Carver to think he was on to the game so soon.

"You…and my sister."

"What about me and your sister?" His kneading continued at an even pace, working the dough across the floured tabletop.

"I'm not a fool. I know you're…together."

"I'm glad that's over with." He gave a small smile. "Really, I was wondering how I was going to break it to you."

Carver scowled from his spot near the hearth. "Look, Vael, I'm not stupid. I saw how she looked at you before the Deep Roads. She was set on you, whether you liked it or not."

"Oh? I like to think this was a mutual arrangement."

"You've obviously never run across my sister when you're standing in the way of something she wants."

Sebastian didn't quite know how to respond to that. He formed his dough into a round and settled it on the hot stones of the brick oven before he turned back, silent.

"She thinks highly enough of you to threaten me with leeches in my bed if I break your nose."

Sebastian chuckled. "Leeches?"

"Trust me, if you ever camp in the swamps of the Korcari Wilds, you'll learn to hate the little hellspawns too. They get _everywhere_." Carver met his eyes. "My point is, Ceelee loves you quite a bit."

His smile was genuine this time. "Like I said, it's a mutual arrangement."

"Father isn't here to take care of this, so it falls to me, as the head of the family."

Sebastian quirked an eyebrow at him.

"You know what I mean, Vael." Carver waved a hand. "Ceelee is head of the family in everything but this. Just…don't hurt her, all right?"

"Carver," he said, and set his palms flat on the table. "I swear to you that I will do all in my power to make her happy and keep her safe."

The warden leaned back, the grim set of his face unchanging. "You'd better, or leeches or no, I'll be paying you a visit."

* * *

"Anders, _no_."

The words brought Sebastian up short as he walked into the cooling shadows of the house. He had just returned from visiting Merrill; after the events on Sundermount, and with the Keeper dead, he tried to bring her what comfort he could. His talk of the Maker was rebuffed, but not his intention – they spent a few hours in conversation until the sun began to go down.

Now, as he laid his bow on the table in the hall next to her staff, he was tempted to take it up again. Nothing in Celeste's tone boded well.

"If you would just listen to me, instead of rejecting my ideas one after the other! Hawke, you know that this could mean change for everyone in Thedas! I'm asking for a favor, that's all."

A book slammed to the table as he made his way toward the library. "You're asking for a favor while giving me no information! Anders, you lied about the potion. I might not be Circle educated, but that doesn't make me stupid."

Silence for a moment, and Sebastian crept forward on quiet footsteps.

"And what would you say if I told you what I wanted? You would want to stop me. I have to do this alone, but your influence with the Grand Cleric could tip the scales in our favor."

"This is assuming that I help you in the first place, which won't be happening. You've done nothing but lie about your doings for almost a year now. You've spent more time outside the clinic, that's true, but not with us at the Hanged Man. You don't think that worries me? It does, Anders." She paused, and Sebastian heard her sigh. "Come down to the tavern for a bit, and let's talk–"

"**We have no time for distractions**!" The deep crackle of magic that signified Justice's appearance made Sebastian's hair stand on end, and the smell of ozone wafted from the half-open door. "**We must fight for the freedom of all mages. You of all people should understand this.**"

"I understand that you killed an innocent mage underneath the Gallows three years ago, Justice – or should I call you Vengeance? There's no justice anywhere in you anymore."

"**A casualty of the cause. I would sacrifice a hundred more like her if it meant freedom for all.**"

"Really? Because you left Anders to deal with the consequences, and I imagine that your pretty little speech didn't sit well with him. He told me he was planning on attending the girl's funeral. How do you think he would react to each and every one of those deaths?"

Celeste's tone was frosty. "I won't be helping, whatever you're planning, and you can rest assured that I will be keeping an eye on you – both of you."

"**So be it.**" The crackling of the air subsided, and Anders's voice took on his usual cast. "I asked for your help, and I thought you helped your friends."

"Just…go, Anders. Get out of my sight."

Sebastian pushed open the library door then, to find Celeste alone. The servant's door swung shut, and he assumed that Anders was making his way through the kitchens to the cellars. He had done it a few times over the years, popping in when Darktown was raided or he needed help.

Celeste straightened and turned to him, the set of her mouth a grim line. "I'm going to assume you heard most of that. I know that look."

He nodded. "What did he want?"

"He wanted me to talk to the Grand Cleric again. I know that she won't change her mind about anything. She is far too invested in keeping the peace, and frankly, I agree with her."

"Anders is getting more and more unstable."

"You're not the only one to notice, Sebastian. As much as I wish I could help, there isn't anything in my books that could pull those two apart. They're a poison for each other, and they can't see it."

"If you are truly worried about him, we could report him to the Templars. They would keep him in custody," he said.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "As soon as Justice saw them, he would slaughter the lot, or die trying. How many Darktown innocents would die in the conflict? You know how many children gather around the clinic because it's a safe place to play."

He sighed. "With the way things are, it's only going to get worse. The entire city is too tense. Something will snap, and the backlash will be terrible."

"You're right," she said. "There's only so much I can do as Champion, however. I refuse to take sides, not in this. As soon as I did, the scales would tip one way or another, and I might well start a war."

He crossed the room to her and took her in his arms. "Well, don't be the Champion here. Be Celeste. For now, what's wrong in the city is wrong out there. In here, it's just us."

She laughed as he laid a kiss along her neck. "You're incorrigible."

"Absolutely awful," he said in easy agreement, but he was rewarded when she turned to him, snaking her arms around his neck. He grinned down at her. "What would you do without me?"

"I don't even want to think about it," she said, smiling up at him.

* * *

"You will tell Her Grace to evacuate Kirkwall. She will find succor and safety in Orlais, at the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux. She is no longer safe here."

"The Divine thinks that there will be war?" Celeste asked. The Seeker, Sister Nightingale, turned to her with an appraising glance.

"Champion, if you can't see it, then we truly are at war. You see how Meredith and Orsino bicker. They remain at each other's throats, and the Grand Cleric will be caught in the middle. The right spark and they will tear her apart before starting on each other. Her safety is paramount, and you both know it."

Sebastian nodded. Aveline and Varric stood guard at the door, talking in low voices. The trap by the blood mages was not any large concern, but it still rattled him. How had they known where they were supposed to meet the Chantry agent? It was far too much of a coincidence, and Sebastian didn't believe in coincidence anymore. Someone had tipped off the mages to be there.

Unease roiled in his stomach. Things were much worse than they had thought.

"I have seen what I needed to see, and this place sets my teeth on edge," Sister Nightingale said as she turned to leave. "Champion, deliver my message to Her Grace. I can only hope she listens."

"Leiliana, wait." The name made the Seeker pause.

"No one has called me that in a long time," she said, a small smile on her face.

"No one remembers you from Lothering but me," Celeste said. "How does a lay sister in the Chantry from a backwater Ferelden village become the Divine's right hand?"

"The Maker's will. How else would an apostate from that same backwater Ferelden village become Champion of Kirkwall?" she asked, that small, cryptic smile still on her face. "I will see you again, Champion. Deliver my message, and pray that Her Grace listens. Maker watch over you all."

She passed Aveline and Varric with a nod, and then she was gone into the shadows of the keep.

"Things are much worse than we thought," Celeste said, echoing his thoughts. Her hand sought Sebastian's, and all he could do was offer her a reassuring squeeze.

* * *

He woke later that evening, when his fingers sought the warmth of her next to him and found nothing. He sat up and dug the sleep from his eyes before pulling on his trousers to search for her. He found her in the kitchen, nursing a mug of tea and staring into the hearth.

"I couldn't sleep," she said. She poured him a mug of the tea, and he grimaced as he sipped at the tepid liquid. "And apparently I've been sitting here longer than I thought, if the tea's gone cold."

"You're worried, as we all are," he said, setting the mug down on the table and settling himself on a chair next to her. "Losing sleep won't do you any good."

"I know." She sighed. "It seems like such a simple thing, doesn't it? The mages are locked down in the Gallows. Their freedoms are taken away as Meredith seeks out shadows that she calls blood magic. It's only a matter of time before something breaks."

He was quiet for a moment. "Would you have gone to the Circle if you had not become Champion?"

She gave him a wry smile. "Would you believe I thought about it? I very nearly went to Kinloch Hold when I was younger. The Circle in Ferelden was much more lenient than the Circle here. Look how that turned out for them, though – more extremists who wanted total freedom for mages and turned to blood magic to get it. If the Hero of Ferelden hadn't shown up, I sincerely believe that the Rite of Annulment would have been enacted."

She turned to the fire. "Most mages can't handle the responsibility of the power we hold. You notice that I light the fire with flint and tinder rather than a flick of my wrist most times, right?"

He nodded.

"Using magic for everyday tasks is a slippery slope towards relying on it for everything. You become complacent in it, and it becomes natural to think that you can control it, no matter the situation. That's where most mages who turn to blood magic get their arrogance. They've controlled the magic up until now, why not this too?"

Sebastian frowned, taking her hand in his. "I saw what the desire demon offered me, and I know that mages face that every day. Is there any way to avoid it?"

"Only by cutting us off from the Fade with the Rite of Tranquility." She shook her head. "Could you bear to see me Tranquil? Could you, knowing what you know now, turn me over to the Templars to strip me of all my magic and my emotions? I would remember you, but I would feel nothing towards you. All you would have would be memories. Could you live with yourself then?"

His voice was hoarse when he answered. "No, I couldn't."

"This is morbid talk for this late at night," she said, standing and pouring her tea out in the basin. "Let's go back to bed."

He went with her, but it was a long time before he slept, staring up at the ceiling with her pressed against his side. When sleep claimed him, visions of sunbursts branded into her forehead haunted his dreams.

* * *

Bodahn served breakfast that morning with a pile of letters. Most were invitations to parties, private meetings, or thank-you notes for the Champion. One letter in particular was snatched from the pile, and he noted the bold handwriting of the First Enchanter. She scanned the note, her eyes narrowing at the contents.

"He wants to see me at the Gallows," she said. "He says it's urgent."

Sebastian stood. "We'd better see what this is about, then."

He should have listened to his instinct. He should have taken her and run.


	15. Sunder

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Fifteen: Sunder

_''Where ignorance is our master, there is no possibility of real peace.'' - Dalai Lama_

* * *

"There can be no compromise."

Anders struck his staff on the ground, and all Sebastian could see was _red_. Red in the sky, red all around them, and red in his vision as he tried to wrap his mind around what had just happened. Ash and smoke covered the stunned onlookers, and that lurid red light bathed the upturned faces in a patina of one man's rage. The Chantry was gone, simply _gone_, blasted to vapor in the darkening summer sky. He fell to his knees as faces flashed before him; all the people he had known, considered his family, were gone. His voice was hoarse as he begged the Maker to watch over his children, the ash and grime on his face cut with twin tracks of grief as he watched his former life burn around him.

The Grand Cleric had refused to leave, conducting her life as usual. The chantry housed fifty cloistered sisters and twice that many lay sisters, all of whom would have been there for noontide services. Families would have been gathered in prayer before the Chant started, as mothers and fathers instructed the younger ones. If it had been a large service…

Nausea roiled in his chest and settled in the pit of his stomach like a stone. So many innocent lives – all dead, because Anders wanted to prove a point. He whirled on the mage, who had seated himself on a crate; his hands dangled between his knees as he awaited his fate. His eyes sought Celeste like a beacon.

She stood before Anders and trembled in mingled anger and grief. He looked up at her with a resigned expression that turned to shock as she belted him hard across the face. He fell back across the crate into the dirt and ash of the Lowtown street. He lay there and blinked in the falling ash from the still-smoldering Chantry.

"You self-serving, manipulative _ass_!" She spat; the gobbet missed him by inches as it pelted into the dust next to his head. "Have you any actual idea about what you've just done, or is it all lost in the feel-good vibes from Justice because you've made him happy?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but she didn't give him the chance; she raised her voice to still his protests as she shook the pain from her knuckles. "You've set back the viewpoint on mages for years, if not _decades_, with this little stunt, Anders. You have removed the chance of compromise, but you have also destroyed any good will toward mages that the Chantry might have harbored. No place is safe, nowhere will entertain the thought of free mages with any sort of seriousness, because you just went and proved – all – the – wild – tales – _right_."

Those last words were punctuated with kicks to his ribs that made him curl in on himself to protect his vitals as she yelled.

"In seven years in this city, I have done more for your cause than your manifestos and your ranting. As Champion, I stood a real chance of making a statement about mages not being a danger. You have just taken seven years of hard work and pitched it to the Void for an incoherent argument that there can be no compromise between mages and templars!" She aimed a kick at his head, but missed as her shaking limbs affected her aim. Anders, to his credit, made no move to escape, and let that insufferable expression of self-loathing creep across his face again.

"For once in your twice-damned life, you couldn't listen to me. Well, you will listen to me now, if I have to grind my words in with my boot. You wanted to help the mages once. I can safely say, as a mage, that I would like you to _**stop helping**_."

"The worst part about it is, you went into this plan knowing how everyone would react. You expected to die for your actions, and be made a martyr. I will not give you the _satisfaction_." Her hands went to her belly, to the scar that Sebastian knew still haunted her. "You saved my life once, which is why I am giving you this. My life for yours. You have twenty-four hours to be gone from Kirkwall, Anders. After that, I will prove that my patience has a limit. I will turn you over to the templars with the request they make you Tranquil for the rest of your miserable life instead of putting a sword through you like you want."

Sebastian was stunned. She was offering Anders _mercy_?

"If I had been at services today, would you let him go then?" he asked, as his anger boiled forth at last. Rage at Anders, rage at her for not seeking justice, rage at himself for being unable to stop it, all of it came to a head in that one, black moment. "You know what must be done!"

She whipped around to look at him, and the words rang like a slap over the distant screams of fear and pain. "You would have me kill him so that he cannot face what he has done? You would grant the coward mercy, not justice."

"_No_! You cannot allow this abomination to walk free! He dies, or I am returning to Starkhaven, and I swear I will bring back such an army as to leave nothing of Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule!" The words rolled heavy across his lips, but he meant them, and he saw the sting in her eyes as the mask slid into place. She had never used her champion's demeanor with him, always expressing herself where he was concerned; now, the coldness in her face did nothing to soothe his anger.

"There has been enough death to glut even the most vengeful man. Let it end here, please. Stand with us, stand with _me_, so that I can try and be the voice of reason in this madness." She took a deep breath, looking from him to Anders. "He lives, so that he may remember what he has done and can live with it for the rest of his miserable life."

"I cannot." His heart sped up at the sight of the mask cracking, if only for an instant – he pressed on. "I won't fight your decision, but the Divine will know – she _must_ know – what has transpired here. I will return, and I will find Anders, and I will give him the justice he _deserves_."

"Sebastian, please," she said, and the pain in her voice broke his heart. She reached for him, and he flinched away, stumbling to the side. He was maddened by grief, and he could not look at her. "Don't do this."

"You've left me no choice, Celeste. I have to go, I must prepare the funeral rites before I leave for Starkhaven. I can't…I can't do this anymore." He shook his head and warded off her hands again. He stopped for a moment as unease gripped him and pressed his palm against her cheek. "Maker watch over you, wherever you walk."

Her face crumpled as he strode away, but he could not stay by her side. This was too much, the breaking point. The ash fell like macabre snow as he picked his way through the rubble-strewn streets of Hightown and searched for the ruins of the Chantry. He stumbled once or twice; he even fell at one point but paid the scrapes no heed as he approached the blasted crater that had been his home for so long.

The walls and the gardens were flattened, the once verdant, peaceful place rendered blackened and smoldering. The stone itself was molten in places, the heat and the stench of death almost unbearable. He knelt at the edge of the wall, where he had helped Roark plant trees what felt like a lifetime ago. He bowed his head, his palms flat on the seared earth, and began to pray in earnest.

His fingertips bumped something buried in the ash, and he brushed away the filth to reveal the battered, carved bone of Roark's pipe, intact save for a scorch mark along the bottom. Fresh tears fell as he remembered the scent of Roark's leaf, his gentle demeanor and his way with the children in the Chantry. His hands shook as he tucked the pipe into his pouch, his open weeping the only sound in the quiet crater.

"I swear I will see justice done, my friends. I will return and wipe the maleficarum from these streets." He rose on wobbly legs, his soul seared raw and burning as he took in the destruction around him. "I swear."

He raised his head to the molten, overcast sky. "Andraste forgive me, I didn't know."

There was no answer from the Maker or His Bride this time, and Sebastian wondered if there ever would be an answer again. He finished his prayers and commended their souls to the Maker's embrace, even as he was sure his clumsy eulogy would never suffice. His steps heavy, he left the smoking hole that had been Kirkwall's Chantry.

His home. His family.

He did not stop for anything save to fetch his belongings from the darkened home that was the Amell estate. The dwarves were long gone and the maidservant Orana had taken to flight as well, or she hid in the cellars, he knew not which. It did not concern him, the taste of ash in his mouth at the forefront of his mind as he stuffed his traveling pack. His clothing, fletching materials, and the small prayer book he kept with him were all he took, and as he turned back to survey the room he had shared with Celeste for three years, memories flooded through him at the sight of the bed and hearth where he had made his home.

It was his home no longer, as transitory as the Chantry had been, and he would leave it now. His fingers lingered but a moment on the doorpost before he shut the wooden door and made his way to the postern gates of the city. Donnic Hendyr himself let Sebastian through; the set of the guardsman's jaw told Sebastian all he needed.

It was time, he knew. There was a price to pay, and the blood that dripped from his fingers now would never come out. He had missed the signs, the indications that Anders was planning this. He had to make amends, and he had to start where it all began.

It was time to return to Starkhaven. He set his feet upon the road out of Kirkwall, and did not look back as the bloody sky bathed the city in death.

* * *

The Harimann estate was cold and dark, save for a light in the upper window. A single candle burned in the windowsill, and it was a signal that Sebastian knew well. The sky still burned a lurid red, although Kirkwall was many hours away, and Sebastian could not close his eyes without seeing the blasted crater that was the Chantry.

This was but a short stop, a place to resupply and be on his way. Were he lucky, Flora would have a mount he could take. He would consider her penance done for this small kindness, he thought to himself as he mounted the steps of the country estate. It had been in the Harimann family for six generations, and it would make sense for Flora to flee here in the madness of the past few hours. The candle on the sill confirmed his hopes, and he pounded on the door, his fist ringing loud and hollow in the early morning hours.

"Flora!" he shouted, and hammered on the door again.

The banded oak door creaked open after a moment, and Flora peered out, her face pale and wan; she was otherwise unharmed.

"Sebastian?" she asked, the disbelief plain in her face. "I thought you to be dead, surely, what with the chaos in the city. Has the Champion fallen?"

"Not that I know of, Flora. She and I have…parted ways." It still ached, a limb lost and yet the feeling was still there. He quashed it and hardened his expression. "I ride for Orlais, if you would be so kind as to make good on the debt that you owe me. I require a horse."

"As you will, Sebastian," she said, and opened the door further. She wore a plain starched gown and her hair was pinned to her head for sleep, but she slipped her feet into sturdy boots and beckoned him to the stables.

She lit a lamp and hung it on the hook as they entered the stable. Sebastian heard the snuffling of several animals as the light disturbed their slumber. Horses poked sleepy noses out of the stalls and regarded him with soft eyes as the two made their way to the back of the building. The last stall was her target, and Flora pulled a lead rope from a nail. A broad, pink nose tucked over the edge of the stall, and Sebastian came face to face with the largest horse he had ever seen.

"His name is Berach," Flora said as she looped the halter over the horse's head. He lipped at her hands, and she stroked his nose before leading him towards the tack wall. "He's not the fastest runner in the stables, but he will get you where you need to go, and if you pace yourself, he will outpace even my fastest sprinters."

The horse was close to seventeen hands tall, Sebastian saw, a great beast of a roan stallion. Thick, muscular legs and wide hooves proved Flora's point – Berach was built for stamina, not for speed. The stallion regarded him with large brown eyes, and Sebastian had the feeling that his measure was taken in that moment. He held out a hand, palm down, for the beast to catch his scent, and Berach sawed his head back and forth after a cursory inspection.

Flora smiled. "Seems like he approves. I thought you two might get on well."

Sebastian helped saddle the horse and walked him to the yard of the estate. Flora shivered in the chill morning air, but walked him to the gates.

"You should get inside, Flora, you'll catch your death," he said, and she smiled at him again.

"Always the worrywart. I wanted to see you off, and I shall. You have a long way to go, and I can afford to sleep in." She paused then, as if deciding something. To his surprise, she stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his cheek. "Be careful, Sebastian."

"And you as well. Bandits roam the roads, and if they know you are here without a guard – " He stopped as she shushed him.

"I have several bodyguards. They will be more than enough. Get you gone, Sebastian Vael, and do your duty."

"Whatever your mother may have been, Flora, you were always my friend," he said as he mounted. Berach flexed his back muscles under Sebastian's thighs as he settled in the saddle and pawed the ground with impatience. Flora was silent as he wheeled the stallion around and rode through the gate. He turned westward, toward Nevarra and Orlais, on his way to reclaim his home at last.

It would be far more difficult that he ever expected.

* * *

A/N: And there you have it, Constant Readers. _Obeisance _as I intended it. Chapter sixteen should be here soon, but for now, I need sleep. As always, thanks for reading!

~Lywinis


	16. Soujourn

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Sixteen: Sojourn

* * *

The road to Val Royeaux was long, but the Imperial Highway caught the most of it, which made it an easier journey than sailing, or so he thought. Boats had never quite agreed with him, for one reason or another. He maintained that he could not control a boat as he could a horse, but in truth, the highways held as much unpredictability as the sea – bandits could leave him just as dead as an overturned galley. Memories of salt kissed lips and a mage who breathed life back into his lungs kept him on horseback and skirting the Waking Sea.

The first night he made camp, he could still see the smoldering wreckage of Kirkwall's skyline in the distance; he turned his back on it and tried to sleep. Celeste trailed his thoughts, and he did what he could to push them away. He existed, blasted raw by grief for the Grand Cleric and the chantry sisters, and all he could do was avenge them. He would do that, and so much more. The provisions that Flora provided would last him for a few weeks, but he hunted to keep sharp and to keep his mind from processing too much too soon.

Game was more plentiful as he neared the western border of the Marches, even as the Planasene Forest grew thicker and more wild. Grouse and deer did not startle as Sebastian approached, and he was able to turn their trust to his advantage. Swift arrows brought down several grouse, and he ate well before he retired to his bedroll. More often than not, however, he did not sleep well. He woke with a handful of dirt where his dreams had him reaching for Celeste, and he could not stop it. Still, he pressed on.

Sebastian made good time by his own estimation, and Berach proved Flora right about his stamina. He walked as much as he rode, to conserve the horse's strength, but it didn't seem to be needed as he woke each morning to the roan stallion lipping his hair in impatience. Berach knew the paths better than he did himself, and often he would give the horse his lead while they rode.

Soon, however, he saw the skyline change with the wooded cliffs of Nevarra, and he breathed in the salt-sea scent of the Waking Sea as it lapped at the high rock walls. He crossed the border, intent on Cumberland to see if news had spread. No doubt the unrest in Kirkwall would spread even south to the shores of Ferelden and north to Seheron, but news was slow in the best of times – unless one counted gossip. He did not look back at the path he had traveled.

The wooded cliffs evened out and the hunter track he had been following became broader as the Imperial Highway took over. The road was wide and cobbled, and the going easier, although he did not push to go faster. Berach traveled at his own pace, and Sebastian stopped when he judged it close to nightfall so that he could make camp.

In the dead of night, as the fire burnt to embers in the wink of starlight, he felt as though he could keep going like this forever. The thought occurred more than once as he rode, as well, but was always pushed down by the weight of his duty and his path laid clear for him.

What would he do if he just kept going? He could leave all this behind, this duty and this burden. He could be free, at last, the way he always wanted.

Something about it rang hollow; perhaps it was just the thought that it would be unfair to the memory of the Grand Cleric if he gave up now. Whatever it was, it stayed his hand as he rode along the Highway the next day. He did not turn down the fork that led to Cumberland; instead he rode on and made camp as he had for weeks before. His time on the road had been nearly a month; the thought shocked him as he readied himself for sleep that night. He had not delayed, but he had not rushed either. His horse was still fresh, as was he. He was shamed with the thought.

Did the Grand Cleric – no, did _Elthina_, his foster mother, and one he loved as much if not more than his own mother – did she not deserve all due haste to Val Royeaux?

Perhaps it was grief that numbed him to the passage of time. All he knew was the road, and all he cared about was the destination. Living off of what the land and the Maker provided had made him lean, toning his body into a sharp, narrow and muscled frame. He walked, or rode, then ate and slept. He took meals on the road, chewing dried meat and apples as he walked. He tried so hard to forget that he had become an enchanter's golem, going through the motions.

He shook himself, rolling over on his blanket. Perhaps it was time to make haste. Time was passing, and he was wasting it. He needed aid, and he needed it now. His people suffered, that much Varric had been able to find out for him before he left. Taxes were high, and nobles feasted while the poor starved. It read like a tale of the Black Fox, except that there was no one to save them. He sat up, unable to sleep and admitting the fact at last.

Berach whickered in the growing light as Sebastian built up the fire again. Something was off about tonight. He couldn't sleep, and his mind started working overtime. He stared at the flames, his eyes narrowed. It wasn't like him to brood, but his grief had broken like a wave upon the shore, and now he was restless with his own inaction. He would have justice for those in the Chantry, and for those being oppressed in his lands.

He had spent years viewing the world through the lens of privilege. His every want had been provided for, even in the Chantry, and the thought shamed him. Perhaps it was time to act for the good of the common man. He could do that, from a position of power such as the throne in Starkhaven. He had spent three years watching Celeste do it, and she had a willing student in Sebastian Vael; something had changed, and it could only be for the better.

He had been right in telling Celeste that he didn't want the throne simply because he could have it. Letters were not doing anyone any good. He would have to raise the army himself.

He fed twigs into the flames as he planned. He would give his report on the goings-on to the Divine. He had not thought about it before now, but he had no idea what he would do afterward. He had a vague notion of taking back Starkhaven, but now it started to take shape as a _how _rather than a vague idea. His jaw firmed as he counted the sovereigns he stored by sewing them into the lining of his pouch.

Celeste had approved of him setting aside money for the recapture of Starkhaven, even contributing money of her own. Careful saving had brought him close to three hundred sovereigns over the three years he lived with her. It wasn't much, by any means, but he would give it all and then some if it meant quelling the unrest in his home.

He thought of the high bridge and the island that housed Arrow's Rest, and he knew that he needed to see it again. It truly was his home, and he ached for it once more.

_Perhaps that is how I know it's time,_ he thought. _I want to go home, to something I can truly call my own. Something I can fight for, something I can defend._

Celeste's face swam through his memory, but it had faded, and he could push it away with only a pang instead of a wrench. He spent the night in prayer instead of sleep, but set out that morning at dawn refreshed and renewed in his purpose. The Maker willing, he would be able to do the right thing at last.

* * *

He touched his knees to Berach's sides to slow the stallion. This crossroads he knew well – Val Chevin was a favorite holiday spot for his parents, and they had brought him here many times. He marked the days in his journal, but did little else to document the trip. Hashmarks to pass the days, until his epiphany around the fire, and then his journal began in earnest as he began to plan.

He reigned in that evening close to the crossroads, lighting a small fire as usual and keeping his ears trained for the sound of approaching footsteps. He expected bandits this night, for the crossroads were a popular place for robberies, but he did not expect them to halloo his camp before robbing him.

An elf slid into the light from his fire, and removed his hood. Something niggled at Sebastian's memory, something that bloomed into full blown recognition when the firelight caught the black scrollwork of a tattoo that lined the side of his face. Blonde hair hung in his eyes but for a moment, to be brushed back by slender fingers.

"You're the Crow assassin…Zevran Arianai," Sebastian said. He had set up camp close to the treeline, and he relaxed against the fallen log he found earlier; the knife he held against his leg went back into its boot sheath. The elf made a sweeping, elegant bow.

"You have caught me, I am afraid, highness. Yes, I remember you as well, Prince Sebastian Vael. You and your lady were quite fetching, no?" Zevran smiled.

Sebastian swallowed, and the small, tight smile he returned felt false as it graced his lips. "She and I are not together any longer."

"No? That is a pity," he said, seating himself across the fire from Sebastian. There was a brace of coney roasting, more than enough for them both, and Zevran pulled a couple loaves of crusty bread from his satchel and held them up. At Sebastian's nod, he tossed one of the loaves to him and they began to split the coney. "Your lady Hawke was well enamored of you, I well remember. None of my incredible charm could tear her eyes from you."

"There were differences of opinion." If Zevran noticed the stiffness in Sebastian's voice, he made no mention, closing tawny eyes as he savored the coney. "What brings you out here? Still running from the Crows?"

"More like running after them this time," he said. He gave Sebastian a wink. "They heard about my association with the Champion of Kirkwall and suddenly remembered a pressing engagement they had elsewhere."

"Of course that had nothing to do with your _association_ with the queen of Ferelden, either, right?" Sebastian's smile grew a little wider.

"Whatever the rumors you have heard, highness, I assure you that my friendship with the Warden is nothing but platonic. Her heart belongs to the king, and another pity, although I wish them well. I am a free agent, so to speak." Zevran's smile was a little sad, and Sebastian felt like an ass.

"My apologies, Zevran, I meant no offense."

"Who has taken offense?" Zevran took another bite of coney. "I am free with my affections, to whoever pleases me the most. It is natural for one to make assumptions. I do not blame you for it."

They ate in silence for a time. The company was not unwelcome, for Sebastian had been on the road for close to two months without a single traveler stopping more than a few minutes at his camp. To be honest with himself, he hadn't been the most accommodating person until recently, anyway. He was content with the silence, because it made him feel even more alive to know that he could speak and break it.

"Will you stay the night, then?" he asked as Zevran broke another chunk of bread from his loaf.

"As you will, highness. Two of us on watch are better than one this close to the crossroads." He chewed for a moment more. "Though the question does come to mind – why are you this far from your home in Kirkwall? Perhaps this has something to do with the rebellion I have heard about through our grapevine that the Crows are so fond of keeping?"

"More or less. I am on my way to the Divine to report what happened there and to beg aid to retake Starkhaven, to retake my birthright." Sebastian frowned. "I _had_ been wondering if the news had spread yet. I left the night it happened. What's the rumor this week? Did Hawke burn the whole city to the ground?"

Zevran barked a laugh as he tore apart the crust of his bread. "Not at all, highness. Tales tell that she quelled the rebellion of the entire circle and defeated Meredith single-handed. The templars bent knee to her at the last moment, when she was to be arrested. Had I not been there, I would not have believed it, myself."

"You were there?" Sebastian raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"Yes, I was there." Zevran seemed even more amused. He tossed the rest of his bread out into the open field. "As usual, I arrived just in time to help save the day. The Crows, myself included, do not forget a good turn done to us. She and I are even now, my friend."

"The templars _bowed_ to her?" Knowing Celeste, it was entirely possible. "A known mage?"

"She showed the mages mercy where there was none before. Meredith had gone mad, some say, and from what I saw, it certainly looked that way. Such a curious sword the Knight-Commander bore. The Champion seemed to recognize it."

Sebastian frowned into the flames. "So she yet lives. I hoped she would."

"Your tone is not one of the scorned lover, highness. Is there more to your story?"

"None that I would wish to retell, Zevran."

"As you will," The elf stood, rolling to his feet in a graceful, boneless stretch. Sebastian looked up, and met the dark amber of his eyes. "There is room in my bedroll, if you prefer not to spend the evening alone."

"It is not necessary," Sebastian said, his face darkening with the heat of a flush. "I am flattered, but –"

"Say no more," Zevran gave an easy shrug. "It _does _occur to me that I owe you still for the part you played in assisting me those months ago. Perhaps aid of another sort might be more palatable. As you said, I am well-acquainted with Ferelden's rulers. I could speak to them for you, about retaking your throne."

Sebastian sat back, deep in consideration. Ties to Ferelden would strengthen his claim if they could back him with an army. The answer was obvious.

"I would be grateful for any help the Hero of Ferelden could provide."

"I cannot promise more than my words, highness, but I will make sure that the queen hears them. Elaine is a good ruler, and a greater woman. She will listen."

Sebastian nodded. "Then you have my thanks."

"As I said, the Crows do not forget a good turn. If you have need of aid when the time comes, send word to Antiva. They'll find me."

"That's generous of you."

"I simply enjoy the adventure. I have a feeling if I stick close to you and your Champion, I will get it."

Zevran was gone before morning. Sebastian did not hear him leave, but he awoke alone, Berach lipping his hair as usual. He wished the assassin well and broke camp, eager to be back on the road.

* * *

Berach crested the last hill on their journey, his ears rotating forward as the sounds of the busy city echoed forth over the wall. From the top of the hill, the sweeping overlook that granted him a look at the entirety of Val Royeaux was awe-inspiring. The Orlesian capital was indeed the largest city he had ever seen; even Kirkwall would fit in half the space the sprawling buildings occupied. The golden palace of the Empress sat, crouched like a lion atop a high overlook.

Above all, however, rested the marble dome of the Grand Cathedral, nestling at an equal height with the White Spire atop the highest rise in the city. The morning sun sparked against the pure white stone, coloring it a deep rose as birds made their morning rounds and wheeled high in the bright blue sky. Sebastian felt the peace of the place settle into his heart and resolved to head there first, to tell the Divine what had transpired.

Here he would find succor. Here he would find some measure of peace.

He nudged Berach into a trot and descended toward the gates, his heart the lightest it had been since his last night in Kirkwall.

* * *

A/N: I know this is later than I said it would be, but it has gotten the ball rolling for where I was floundering before. I'm working on 17 as soon as I finish uploading this one. This should wrap up before November and NaNo, god willing. Hope you enjoy, Constant Readers.

~Lywinis


	17. Supplicant

_Obeisance_

A Dragon Age fanfiction

By Lywinis

Chapter Seventeen: Supplicant

* * *

_The gates of Orlais open at dawn_, Sebastian remembered the old tale. _The Maker and His Bride greet the sun with the people's smile and song._

Berach cantered through the high stone gates of the city, the wide paved expanse of the Imperial Highway giving way to a high street that was no less wide and spacious, save for the line of trees planted through the middle of the cobbles that separated foot traffic going in opposite directions. His horse clopped up the road at a sedate pace, the morning traffic moving around them like a breaking wave as the crush of people went about their business.

He took in the sights and sounds of a large city at its busiest, and felt very much the country bumpkin even after living in Kirkwall for as long as he had. Val Royeaux was simply too big to be allowed; the streets and vendors crowded his senses with smells, sights, and sounds. Baking bread clashed with the scent of roasting meats and vegetables, rich wines and flowery spices wafted their aromas from stalls set up next to each other.

Still, he pushed onward, Berach's size granting him the unique advantage of being able to push through the crowd through sheer force of will. He spent most of the ride through the city trying not to gape at the architecture, swirling arabesques and murals on every wall painted with the sense of piety that most cities lacked. He could see now where most Orlesians got their snotty attitudes from – it was a legitimate complaint, to come from a city so beautiful and to be faced with something like the crude cityscape of Lowtown.

Still, it was not his main goal to take in the architecture. He pushed uphill, at last reaching a point where the markets stopped and the housing began. The streets narrowed and flung themselves out in all directions, creating a warren of sculpted exterior apartments and taverns. Templars patrolled the sun-drenched streets and the clank of their armor was far less ominous than it was in Kirkwall. These templars patrolled without suspicion, for what would dare attack them at the seat of the Maker's influence.

He quickened Berach's gait, because he knew.

The path to the Grand Cathedral was near deserted, and Sebastian wondered where the supplicants who lived in such a city were. The dawn service should have just ended, filling the streets with the faithful to go about their workday until noon, when the services would begin again. Instead, templar patrols thickened, four and five to a group where before there had only been two or three.

The pathways wound higher, and the cobbles became even more immaculate as he approached. High stone walls separated the estates from the road the higher he went, and the gentle slope of the road became watched by private guards with family insignias sewn onto their surcoats. Closed-faced helmets did not betray their expressions, but Sebastian could feel their eyes as he rode past.

Where once there had been a feeling of ease in his heart, uncertainty began to grow, crawling up his spine from his belly. He rode father, trying to determine if the feeling of unease was due to the absence of the street vendors he had heard of, or the presence of the templars themselves. Berach seemed to sense his unease, and gave a snort as they turned onto the Avenue of the Faithful.

It was a broad cobbled street, bare of any building say save the Grand Cathedral and the White Tower themselves. The Orlesians stopped short of building apartments that looked into the Divine's bedroom, Sebastian thought, ad was shamed for his impiety in such a holy place. His eye traveled along the carved marble of the cathedral's dome, arabesques and murals depicting the immolation and subsequent execution of Andraste causing another shiver to run down his spine to his gut.

He had come this far, there was no running now.

He dismounted outside the open gates, and a stable boy scurried forward to take his horse, bobbing his head. Sebastian gave instruction to the boy, fishing in his belt for a coin.

"Water him, brush him, and feed him well, lad. He's had a long journey." Sebastian slid a silver penny to the boy, who clutched it with wide eyes. His Orlesian was fluent, but halting; he hadn't spoken the language in years.

"_Oui_, messere, I will take care of him." Berach seemed charmed by the apple the boy produced, and was a willing charge as he was led into the stable.

Sebastian turned to the Cathedral itself. It was the largest building he had memory of seeing, close to several hundred feet long and covered in marble engravings in their entirety. Wide, deep steps led to ornate gilt doors, stood open to let the morning air in. Two templars stood watch, their hands folded over the pommels of their sheathed swords that rested tip first on the stone in front of them.

He strode up the steps, his boots sliding over the stone as though he were a trespasser. He reprimanded himself, instead forcing his back to straighten and his shoulders to square as he entered the most holy place in all of Thedas.

* * *

The revered mothers that served in the chantries of his homeland were not present here in the chapel mount, and he had a hard time finding anyone who might show him the way. At last, a sweeping elf pointed him in the right direction; her eyes darted about and her fingers shook as she pointed. He thanked her and continued on his way down the sumptuous halls.

He approached the gilt desk, where a scribe moved quill over parchment in the time honored tradition of his station. He was older, with a head of thinning brown hair and ink-stained fingers that rifled through the parchment paper scattered across the desk's surface.

"Serah?" Sebastian hesitated, but when he wasn't answered, the only thing he could do was clear his throat.

The scribe looked up, his face a severe mask of disapproval. "Is there something you need?"

"I would like to speak to the Divine, serah, if that is at all possible?" It seemed foolish to ask now; everyone at home had been able to speak to Elthina in private, whether king or kitchen boy.

"You and half the populace," said the scribe. He looked down at his parchment. "_Merde_. I have lost my place."

"Serah, I don't think you understand the urgency with which I request the Divine's attention." Sebastian folded his hands behind his back. "I am brother Sebastian Vael, formerly of the Chantry in Kirkwall."

The scribe dropped his pen and stared at Sebastian. "Kirkwall?"

"Aye."

"That's impossible. There were no survivors from the incident in Kirkwall. Everyone in the Chantry there was slaughtered."

"By a mage, yes. I was there." He grit his teeth against the memory; if he had to rehash it to get to see the Divine, he would.

"You say you were there, but yet you live. How is this?"

"I was away from the chantry at the time of the explosion."

"You say you were a brother?" The scribe reached for a piece of parchment from a leaning pile. He dug through until he found what he wanted, and then read through it with a critical eye. "Did you take your vows?"

"I...did not. I broke away from the Chantry when my family was murdered."

"So, you broke away from the Chantry, and yet you call yourself a brother?"

"Until my family's murder, I was indeed a brother of the Chantry, all but ready to take my vows."

"That does not make you a brother any longer."

"It does not, no."

The scribe laid down the piece of parchment and smoothed it flat. "Did you think that claiming yourself a brother would get you in to see the Divine faster?"

"I did not, but I still consider myself a brother of the faith. There were...extenuating circumstances for my departure from the chantry, prior to the incident." Sebastian felt his face color, but pressed on. "I could use my other title, if you like, but I doubt that would get my foot in the door any faster."

"Your other title, Prince Sebastian Vael?" The scribe crooked an eyebrow. "No, it won't."

"So you know me." Somehow, Sebastian was less than surprised. This man carried himself like the seneschal of Kirkwall – full of everyone else's business even if it wasn't his to know.

"I know of you, Prince Vael, only because I was made aware of you by the late Grand Cleric Elthina, who rests at the Maker's side now." He sniffed, giving Sebastian that same critical eye. "She told me of your 'extenuating circumstances', and she and I disagreed on whether that was a choice you should have been allowed to make. Had she taken my advice, she should have invested you as a brother and kept you cloistered, like I recommended in the first place."

Sebastian stiffened. "You have no say in what goes on under the Grand Cleric's wing."

"Oh, but I assure you, I do." The scribe smiled. "I handle all of Her Excellency's affairs. She has far too much to do as it is without dealing with petty affairs and the likes of you."

He set down his quill with a snap. "You might think you are important, your highness, but I assure you, you are only a man in the Maker's sight, as we all are."

"You would speak this way to the only surviving member of the faith in Kirkwall? I came here to speak to the Divine, to ask for aid, and you instead insult me and tell me that I should have been cloistered. Had I been cloistered, I would have been dead!"

"And you would have a place at the Maker's side for doing so, instead of standing here bothering me!" The man reached for another piece of parchment. "Maker bless you and may Andraste guide your way, Prince Vael, but we do not give handouts, not even to royalty. There is nothing for you here."

"You would dismiss me without even hearing my story?"

"The Divine has her eyes and ears everywhere. She does not need tainted information from a sinner such as yourself."

"Peace, Brother Herschell." A low voice made Sebastian startle, but then he recognized the face that peered around the door. "Sebastian is still a brother in faith."

Sister Nightingale shut the door behind her with a soft click. Brother Herschell looked sour, but did not object. How could he, in front of the Divine's right hand?

"Leliana," Sebastian said. "You have no idea how good it is to see you."

"I only wish it were with better tidings. I have heard about what happened. What I warned you about has come to pass." Leliana shook her head. "The Divine will wish to speak to you, but you were right in pressing. Brother Herschell has..._ideas_ about how things should run, especially since the current Divine took her seat."

There was an irritated grunt from the scribe, who had resumed his tireless scribbling.

"Follow me," she said, and they left the grumbling Brother Herschell to his work.

Everything in the Grand Cathedral was either gilded or of such rich quality that it was only natural for Sebastian to look around. It was not what he was used to, and it unsettled him more than a little. Leliana made an amused noise as he took in the gold threaded tapestries, rich woods and finely carved stone.

"A little much to take in, Sebastian?" she asked.

He felt himself redden again, but did not let his embarrassment sway him. "It seems like the vow of poverty was only for those below the highest echelon."

"The Divine does not see much of it, I will admit," she said. "It is more for the sisters' comfort. Did you not have something like this in Kirkwall?"

"We lived simply in the Chantry in Kirkwall," he said, frowning around him. "I took a vow of poverty, and lived by it. Every Chantry I have stopped in has done the same."

"Something should be done about it, then, you think?"

"It should be sold, and the money given to the poor of the city." The thought angered him. There was so much there that could be done, and instead, the wealth was put on display. He paused, tapping the outstretched hands of a statue of Andraste as she raised them above her head in supplication to the Maker. "This statue alone would feed the poor of Darktown for several weeks, if the money were used properly."

"And you question the Chantry in this, as you have before." Leliana's tone was neutral, but she continued walking. Sebastian was forced to a jog to catch up, but she did not slow. "So many questions. Perhaps the Divine will answer them for you. We are here, after all."

A pair of carved double doors stood in front of them, set with gilt and hammered silver. The Maker, a faceless sculpture of a man, stood with hands outstretched to embrace the prophet, who was carved into the opposite door. Leliana made a sign of reverence, then opened Andraste's door to admit them.

Sebastian found himself in a small sitting room, layered with plush pillows and couches. A fire burned in the grate, and the smell of incense permeated the space. His eyes, however, were drawn to the couch before the fire, where a veiled figure sat.

"She is waiting for you, brother. Go and ask your questions." With that, Leliana was gone, the carved door closing with a click.

Sebastian hesitated. Who was he to bring his tale to the Divine? Perhaps the brother was right, but Leliana had seemed sure that she would want to hear it. He swallowed, then crossed the room to kneel at her feet.

"Most Holy," he said, his head bowed.

He felt fingers brush his hair, stroking it to where it met the nape of his neck, and had the sudden realization that he needed a haircut. He was travel-stained and stubbly. He was not fit to be in her presence, yet here he was.

"You must be brother Sebastian. I heard much about you from Sister Nightingale. Please, you must be weary. Sit and rest." Her voice was low and melodious, one that sang the chant in a previous time, before her elevation. The hand that touched his head moved to his jaw, tilting his head up to look at her. Thin lips and large, dark eyes were filmed by a gauzy veil. She was pale, with the baby fat of youth still upon her, but Justinia V held more power in Thedas than any other single person, and that granted her an aura of awe as he rose and seated himself in a chair opposite her.

"Your Perfection, I apologize for this intrusion, but I felt that you must know what has transpired in Kirkwall."

The veiled mouth lifted in a half-smile. "Sister Nightingale has many informants, and we heard the news almost a tenday after it happened. What news do you think you could bring us?"

Sebastian paused, his thoughts a jumble. "I know the culprit. I was within striking distance when it happened."

"But you did not strike. Why is that?"

"Someone prevented me from doing so, because it was not my say."

"Celeste Hawke." The name was not a curse, but the closest he could imagine the Most Holy coming to an actual blasphemy. "We've heard much about the Champion of Kirkwall."

"She was not to blame, Most Holy. She had no plots with the abomination known as Anders to…to destroy the Chantry."

"She knew what he was. _You_ knew that he was an abomination. You knew he harbored a demon and you did not turn that information over to the templars." She tilted her head to the side, as if she were examining him. "I find that to be telling about one's nature."

"What do you mean?" Sebastian tried not to bristle at the mention of Celeste and the time they spent together.

"You turned away from the chantry to follow a known apostate, one who has a history of inciting riots against the faith and consorting with the Qunari. Tell me, brother Sebastian, was the call of the heretical Qun so strong that you would leave us behind?"

"Most Holy, I assure you, I am still strong in my faith in the Maker and in Andraste. I did not follow Hawke out of want, but out of necessity. She aided me when none would, and I owed her for her service." The yawing pit in his gut grew larger as the Divine tapped her fleshy white fingers against her cushion.

"That, then, must have been the reason that you left the chantry altogether, in order to move into her Hightown manse, and participate in carnal acts forbidden by the vow you swore – the one you broke by pursuing the men who were hired to kill your family. You swore before the Maker and his bride that you would take no bride but Andraste, yet you dallied with an apostate without a second thought. Because you owed her for the service she rendered."

His face flamed with shame, but he did not look away as the Divine listed his sins.

"I see you do not deny it. Have you come, then, to repent your sins?"

"There was no sin in loving her," he said. He blurted it out, before he could think, but in the heat of the moment, he knew it to be the truth.

The Divine raised a shaped eyebrow. "Truly? Perhaps then, my talks with the Maker have all gone in vain, then. Perhaps bedding an apostate is all that is needed to make one wise in the ways of the world."

He backpedaled as he tried to gather his thoughts. "I meant no disrespect, Your Perfection, but I do not see the sin in loving another."

"Of course you didn't, Sebastian. That is why it's known as sin. To you, it was natural and good, but it was not. The sin of lust has taken many a pious man and turned him towards damnation."

"It was not lust. At the beginning, perhaps, but it became something…better the longer I was with her." His eyes narrowed. "I loved her."

"But not anymore?" The eyebrow arched further, and Sebastian struggled to remain calm.

"No, Most Holy, I don't." He broke eye contact at last, and looked down at his hands. "Not any longer."

His chest was tight with the admission, and his heart gave a painful squeeze as he said it aloud.

"Child, you must admit that you have sinned if you are to receive any succor in the Maker's house. Your service in the Chantry was enough to teach you that, I hope?" The Divine's eyes were not unkind, but Sebastian fought the knot of anger in his chest anyway.

"I will not admit to sin that was not there, Most Holy. Loving Celeste Hawke was the most humbling, rewarding experience of my life, and not even my time in the Chantry could stop me from feeling that. We helped more people in a week than the Chantry did in a month." He stared her down. "There was no sin."

The Divine shook her head. "Then I have no choice but to consider her even more dangerous. She led you away from the Chantry, and convinced you that somehow it was a better life than the one of contemplation that you chose. Knowing Kirkwall, blood magic was involved."

"Celeste was no blood mage!" His fist came down hard on the wooden armrest of his chair, hard enough for it to rattle the table that sat next to it. It fell to the floor and a box of incense clattered open, releasing a puff of fragrance into the supercharged air. "She was a healer."

"Then she should have been in the Circle, where mages belong, not touted as nobility!" The Divine's tone became rimed with frost, and she leveled a stern glare at Sebastian, who did not flinch. "_Magic is meant to serve man, not rule over_ _him_."

"Before the Chantry was destroyed, Anders was _serving man_ by running a free clinic for the residents of Darktown!" Sebastian made a negative, slashing motion with the flat of his hand. "He was healing the poor and sick without asking for anything in return. People that the Chantry turned away."

"He was an abomination. As was the Dalish elf your _healer_ kept in her stable of motley friends. Pirates, former slaves, former _slavers_, and a dwarf with a penchant for embellishing everything he's ever heard. The least pious company in the world, and you were warned of her influence by the Grand Cleric Elthina _and _by Mother Petrice, who ended up dead far earlier than the incident that killed all of our faithful in Kirkwall. You exposed them all to the influence of the Qun, but when that didn't work, the abomination took it into his own hands to send a message to the faithful. We have received that message."

"None of this was Celeste's doing. Mother Petrice was trying to incite a right of the faithful, to turn them against the Qunari in the city and the Viscount."

"But the Chantry was?"

"It was not." He fixed her with a level stare.

"I find that hard to believe, coming from one who has fallen from grace such as yourself."

"And with that, Your Perfection, I will take my leave."

"I have not given you permission to depart, Sebastian."

He gave her a high, tight smile as he stood and strode to the door. "Consider it one more sin I am proud to commit."

* * *

A/N: I don't think this will finish before November, so you can expect this to go on hiatus when NaNo starts up. However, I will still update it up until then, and I'm writing at a decent clip again, so it's all right. That said, hope you enjoyed this chapter, Constant Readers.

~Lywinis


	18. Sackcloth

**Obeisance**

**A Dragon Age fanfiction **

**By Lywinis **

**Chapter Eighteen: Sackcloth**

* * *

Sebastian retrieved Berach from the stable lad. Leliana caught him right before he mounted up to ride out, her hand on the reins as strong as steel.

"You intend to leave without Her Perfection's blessing?" Leliana's face was pinched, near anger.

"I intend to leave without _anyone_'s blessing, Sister Nightingale." The spark of rage that had carried him out of the Grand Cathedral and into the warm morning air of the late summer had chilled to the iciness of resolve. "I care not for Val Royeaux in the summer, myself. Politics fly thick, even in the Maker's house. It could be likened to flies on the back of an ass."

Leliana drew back, as if she had been slapped. "You blaspheme in the Maker's presence!"

"The Maker has long ago forsaken this place, Sister Nightingale. I shall soon be doing likewise."

"Your kingdom will fall in the Maker's sight, Sebastian. I swear it on my faith."

"Swear it on your faith, then. We will see whether that guides your arrows as swiftly as my hand guides mine." Sebastian tugged the reins from her grasp and swung up onto Berach's broad back. "I trust that I have amnesty leaving the city? I would hate for Hawke to discover that you murdered the last living scion of the Vael household while he left your care. She might just bring the Qun to Orlais."

His lip curled, and his eyes bored into the Seeker's.

Leliana scoffed. "Of course you may leave, Prince Vael. Never let it be said that the Divine does not treat heretics with compassion."

"Yes, Maker forbid." Leliana made no move toward his bridle; instead, she stepped back and allowed him to wheel about so that he could ride from the courtyard.

"This will not stand, you know," she called to him. "The Maker will reward his faithful."

"Let me know when He does, Seeker. I should like to know how well suited you are to your reward." Sebastian touched his heels to Berach's sides, and he cantered from the courtyard, resolved to be gone from the city before dark.

* * *

It was easy enough to escape the crush of the city. Sebastian had a feeling that the Templars were letting him go, as he trotted past many closed helmets concealing watchful eyes. He stopped to resupply himself with dried meat and fruit, and he bought a large bag of oats for Berach at an inn closest to the gates. Noon approached and passed before he felt resupplied enough for the road.

The longer Val Royeaux surrounded him, the more claustrophobic he became; he was near frantic for the open road by the time he got to the gates of the city.

The patrol of Templars that stood vigil in front of the gates to the city said nothing as he cantered past, and he gave a small sigh of relief to be out of the city at last. He turned north along the path toward the Imperial Highway and let Berach have free rein. The great stallion surged forward, eating up the miles in a tireless run. Before sundown, the highway hove into view. The nickering of horses made Berach's ears prick forward, and he quivered against the pressure of Sebastian's knees.

Sebastian slowed Berach to a walk and cut into the woods along the road. A deer trail wound closer to the crossroads, and he dismounted so that he could approach on foot. Berach, tied to a low branch, was content to crop the grass and rest from his run. Catlike, Sebastian dug his toes into the soft earth and crept forward.

The trees thinned as he got closer, but he flattened himself to the ground in a crawl. He pulled his knife from his boot and held it in an underhand grip as he approached a better vantage point.

A squad of Templars, close to thirty strong, waited at the crossroads with lit torches. So, they weren't even to let him get to Val Chevin. He snorted under his breath at the way they sat their horses. These men were untried, novices on their first real assignments. Their harnesses creaked under the strain of the armor, and the horses stamped irritated hooves, unused to the weight. Some talked in low voices, and only a few watched the road that led to Val Royeaux.

At first the thought of them searching for him was ridiculous, a case of hubris; that all changed when a merchant caravan rolled up and halted before the Templars. Sebastian was close enough that he could hear the conversation the Templar had with the cart driver. His Orlesian was rusty, but he could make out the words '_traître_' and '_cotte de mailles_'. He looked down at his distinctive chest-piece and cursed his armor.

Though the brutes were slow and untrained, they were thorough, upending the cart before repacking it, the merchant pulling his hair out and cursing the Templars in fluent Orlesian. Sebastian raised an eyebrow at some of the saucier ones, but the merchant quieted when the lead Templar backhanded him hard with a gauntleted fist. The merchant's bodyguards stepped forward, as did the complement of Templars, hands on weapon hilts on both sides of the line. The merchant struggled to his feet, clutching his bloody nose and waving off his guards as the Templars repacked the cart. He rode off in a huff, some of the Templars chuckling as he continued on down the road, his cart bouncing after him.

He decided that it might be worse had he barreled into them without slowing. He crept back into the underbrush and before long was back on the deer trail where his horse waited. He dug in his pack for his spare leathers, and undid his armor. The mail shirred to the ground with a dull clink, and Sebastian froze, ears strained for the sound of discovery. When no such sound came, he gathered up his shed armor and wrapped it in an old cloak. He pulled on his leathers, doeskin and buttery soft, combined with plates of metal riveted to the back to provide some protection. He frowned a little at the weight, but reasoned he would get used to it. His traveling cloak concealed the fineness of his grandfather's bow and the quality of the knife at his hip, at least to a passing glance.

It would have to do.

Sebastian untied the reins and led Berach along the trail. To his relief, the animal trail led in the right direction, keeping the sea to his right as he continued on. He traveled until the moon set, leaving it far too dark for him to see.

His camp was cold, but the warmth of Berach at his back while they both slept carried him through the night. He continued on the game trail the next day, relying on his instincts and the sound of the Waking Sea to guide him back without the safety of the main road.

* * *

He debated on skirting Cumberland altogether, but his hunger for news outweighed his prudence in the matter. He had avoided Val Chevin, the port city still too close to Val Royeaux for his liking. He had never noticed the abundance of Templars before, but now the sight of the closed-face sugarloaf helmets set his teeth on edge, even as he walked through them with his hood pulled low over his eyes. He had been on the road for close to three months now with no other company but Berach as he followed the coast back to the Marches, and he ached for knowledge of the world around him.

He passed through the bustling gates of the port city at noon, his horse on a lead behind him. There was nothing that set Cumberland apart from any other port town, save the size. It was large to accommodate the bi-yearly meetings of the College of Magi. The large tower where the meetings were held crouched over the town on the top of a rocky cliff; it loomed like the prospect of magic over everyone's lives. The thought was sobering as Sebastian paused to look up.

Sebastian looked up at it for a long moment. He wondered if they had ever dealt with anything like what had happened in Kirkwall, and he realized his fists were clenched so tight his leather gauntlets creaked. He forced himself to open them, and the nudge of Berach's soft nose in the small of his back urged him along.

The College of Magi was almost empty most of the time; the Circle in Nevarra was located outside of Nevarra City proper, close to the edge of the Fields of Ghislaine. The only time the city was full to bursting was when the college was to convene. The streets were quiet as he led Berach along, only the regular merchants and shipping that had put Cumberland on the map before the College was present.

The Templars were thin here, almost non-existent; he remembered the college was to meet next year, and he gave thanks for small blessings. All he had to do now was find a tavern and soak up what news he could. He made his way down the dirt roads that the outskirts of town and found that they turned to well-kept cobbles the closer he got to the middle of the city. Berach snorted at the unfamiliar place, but behaved himself until Sebastian found a tavern along a dilapidated side street. He could afford better, but he would rather not draw attention to himself by flashing coin.

The sign that flapped and creaked in the sea breeze was scarred to near-illegibility, but he could just make out the name The Black Dog scrawled in crude script across the weather-beaten board. He looked for the stable master, and the lout roused himself at last, scratching his lice as he took Berach from Sebastian. He claimed his saddle bags and sought comfort for himself.

As he crossed the yard to mount the steps to the inn, he noticed a child sitting next to them in the dirt. He couldn't place it but - no, there it was. The child was far too alert. Eyes that were bright instead of dull with hunger like his fellows. He was a boy about ten, skinny but not unfed. Sebastian fished into his pocket for coin and handed the coppers over. Dirty fingers clutched them and squirreled them away among the rags the child wore, and the eyes looked through a mop of brown hair, assessing him.

"Get yourself something to eat, lad." He continued up the steps, convinced that the child's eyes followed him the entire way. Whether he had baited or pacified the local thieves' guild would remain to be seen. Sebastian forced himself to relax as he pushed open the scarred wooden door and stepped into the inn.

It was small and old, but clean, as was the woman who bustled forward to greet him. She smiled, patting her apron as she fussed over him.

"My lord, welcome to the Black Dog! Are you looking for a place to wash off the dust?"

Sebastian gave a wry smile as he pushed back his hood. "I'm no lord, good lady, but I'm in need of a bath and some hot food, if they are still available."

She waved a hand. "Every customer with good coin is a lord, my lord. You look an honest man, one who won't break my crocks or chase my maids, and that's more welcome than you know."

She led him upstairs and handed him a wrought iron key. "The maids will be along with the hot water for your bath shortly. It's ten coppers for the bath, twenty for the meal, and a room for the night will run you two silvers."

He nodded and fished out three silvers. "Keep the rest, in case I decide one bath isn't enough. After being on the road as long as I have, it might very well be true."

She laughed and sailed away, thinking no doubt that he was a simple traveler, or at least he hoped. His brogue was undisguisable, he knew, but he hoped he could pass for at least a man that was of more common birth than he really was in his speech patterns. It would remain to be seen. He would either be caught, or he wouldn't.

If he woke up surrounded by Templars, he'd know he failed, he supposed with a dire inner chuckle.

The room was plain, with a wardrobe for clothing and a single window with panes of cloudy glass that looked out onto the street below. A low-slung bed with a patched but clean quilt dominated the small room, and a small chest was just the right size to hold all his possessions. He dumped his saddlebags in a corner and stretched the kinks of riding all day from his back.

He ran a hand through his stubble, and realized it had gone from the scratch of stubble to the brush of a beard without his noticing. He hadn't stopped to shave in the wilds, and it might serve as a better disguise than anything else. Trimmed up, of course. He fetched his shaving kit from his saddlebags, and a knock on his door made him turn. He cracked the door, saw the maids with the hot water, and let them in. They filled a copper tub in the corner of the room and left him alone. The steam from the water cleared some of the dust from his mind as he stripped down.

He sank into the water, hissing through his teeth at the just-boiling temperature, then groaning as the knots in his back from travel eased. He relaxed against the side of the tub, fingers splashing through the water as he let his mind go blank for just a moment as he scrubbed the dirt from sleeping in the woods off his skin. It was soothing, the hot bath, and he ducked his head under the water to scrub the filth from his hair.

_"A sail lashed tight breaks in a high wind, Sebastian. And from the looks of it, you're lashed as tightly as you'll go without losing your mast."_

He surfaced and cleared the water from his eyes, expecting the Rivaini pirate cocked back in her chair as she tried to get a peek at him again. The room, however, was empty, and he shook his head to clear away the cobwebs of his memory. That part of his life was over now, and it would do to leave the dead buried.

His shaving kit had no mirror, but the owner of the inn had been kind enough to provide, and he picked up the small circle of silvered glass. The reflection was not the man he remembered, a sorry excuse for a brother of the Chantry, and an even sorrier excuse for a prince. Long, dripping hair still full of mats, a scruffy, unkempt beard, and eyes that were tired and road-weary greeted him. He could still see the grief etched around his eyes and mouth, and it made his lips tighten before he picked up his shaving kit.

He set to work with the small pair of scissors, clipping his beard into a reasonable length before he took the straight-razor to it. The scrape of the blade against his skin was soothing, something familiar, and he shaped the beard as best he could in the fading light from the sun. As the water became tepid, he looked at himself again. He had shaved the sides off, neatened his sideburns, and had shaped himself a clever goatee that outlined his chin to bring it to a softened point. He debated for a moment, then left the soul patch as it was, deciding it was too dark to shave it at the moment. He worked out the knots of his hair, wincing as some of them came free, and clubbed it at the base of his neck for the moment. In the morning, he decided, he would go and get it cut. For now, though, it would do.

He dressed in wool trousers and a linen shirt, his hair wet against the nape of his neck. His boots went back on, and he repacked everything in his saddlebags in case he needed to make an escape. His armor remained hidden in the largest bag, wrapped in an old cloak. He oiled it and polished it as he should, but he dared not wear it, not until he ruled Starkhaven once again. It made him a target. He cleaned his leathers as well, working mink oil into the surface to clean them and keep them flexible. They had served him well so far, and would for a long time yet, Maker willing.

He took his meal in his room, the landlady kind enough to bring it up to him herself. She handed him the tray. A bowl of stew, hearty and full of fresh meat and vegetables and a round of crusty bread, with a mug of the ale that was cool from the cellar made his mouth water. When he counted out another twelve silver pieces to her, she smiled.

"Have you decided you liked my hospitality then, Serah?" she asked.

"Yes, madam," he said. "I find the inn quite charming, and I could do with a rest. I have been on the road for more than six months, and I feel it's time to rejoin the civilized world."

She pocketed his silver. "You are more than welcome to stay longer, should you wish it. For the week, however, the room is yours. There are regular meals, and the tavern is downstairs, should you wish it, Serah."

The landlady bowed out of the room, leaving him alone once again. He ate and then settled onto the bed, kicking his boots off. He was asleep as soon as he lay down; he drifted off on the soft tick with his pillow tucked under one arm. The moon shone through on the planes of his face, and on the hand that grasped the coverlet next to him, as though seeking his other half.

* * *

A/N: I don't know how long this is going to last, but I'm going to ride the lightning. Chapter eighteen is, as you can see, finished. Chapter nineteen is about halfway there. I have no idea if twenty will come just as easily or what, but it's coming. I am working steadily, and I will continue to do so as long as the muse lasts, Constant Readers. I hope to have nineteen up sometime either tonight or tomorrow, depending on muse and beta's happiness with the chapter. Until then, I hope you enjoyed, and I will return soon with more Sebastian.


	19. Sellsword

**Obeisance **

**A Dragon Age fanfiction by Lywinis **

**Chapter Nineteen: Sellsword**

* * *

Sebastian woke with a clear head. The sun shone in through the greasy glass of his room, and he stretched as he sat up. His back was still stiff, unused to the luxury of the bed, but he knew he would get used to it again. His eyes were bleary, sleep-worn, and he ran a hand over his face before turning to the washbasin. The jug was full, and he poured a measure of the water to wash his face and shave. He trimmed his new goatee, his reflection in the glass unfamiliar still. He hoped it would be enough to serve as a temporary disguise.

He wasn't keeping the long hair, however. He'd inquire about a barber over breakfast. He slid into his boots and leathers, slipping the toggles that held the brigandine closed in record time. His bow stayed in its oiled case in the chest, but his long knives went with him, two tucked in his boots, one in his belt. He wasn't expecting trouble, but his days in Kirkwall had taught him to always be prepared.

The landlady was chirpy and cheerful when she greeted him. She placed a warm mug of tea in front of him when he seated himself in the main room of the tavern, and he thanked her, sliding another silver piece her way. She made change for him, and he slipped the copper into his pouch as she bustled about, wiping the wooden tables down with a wet rag. She was a plump woman, with iron grey hair bound in a bun. Wisps of it fell about her face, and she moved with the aches and pains of someone who had lived a life of toil. Her eyes were grey and canny, and she had a sense of humor about her work. He couldn't help but be reminded of Leandra Hawke; the few times he had met the woman, she had been gracious and charming to him as well.

Sebastian left a few coppers behind after he finished his breakfast. He made his way out into the city, the day already underway around him. The small beggar boy he had given coin to yesterday was there, crouched in the dirt of the stairwell, and he dropped another couple of copper into his mug as he passed, not making eye contact. Whatever the boy was doing, Sebastian hoped that at least his coin would take the edge off his hunger.

He could feel eyes on his back as he made his way through the streets of Cumberland, but he was careful to never step anywhere that could be considered out of the way or too quiet. There were plenty of hidey-holes for cutpurses and muggers to hide in this city, just as any other, and he knew what to look for as he went about his business. He took no chances, staying in sight of the guards and in the crowds as he worked his way toward the barber that the landlady recommended.

The city was old, almost as old as some of the houses in Kirkwall, and the stone walls rose high over his head as he pushed through the crowds. He stopped at the barber and paid for a trim, ignoring the bloodied apron and other room where the barber did the other half of his job. There were, for some who were too leery of magic to let it do its work, alternatives to healers. It wasn't pretty, and it was often painful or dangerous, but it was the only alternative to letting a mage heal you. This one, at least, had a well out back and washed up after every operation he did, or so he said. He was handy and clever with his shears, however, and Sebastian thought it well worth the money.

His hair a reasonable length again, he set out to resupply himself. The market was bustling, as was expected of a harbor town, and he strolled past vendors selling fresh fish, fruit, and grain, as well as silks and trinkets. He browsed the stalls, the feeling of being watched still on the edge of his awareness. He ignored it, instead buying dried jerky, dried apples, and grain for the road. He gave the trinkets being sold a once-over, out of a need to just hear the hum of humanity around him.

A lot of the jewelry was hand-made, crafted in the wooden stalls as he browsed. Bracelets made from bits of shell, beads spun from glass and wrought from silver, pendants inlaid in gold and decorated with colorful bits of cloth; it was as diverse a market as he had ever seen, even in Kirkwall.

His fingers brushed over a carved wooden bracelet, the likeness of a hunting bird in flight, the wings arcing down and forming the encircling band. An arrow shaped head, built for speed, would rest on the back of the bearer's hand toward the fingers. Alert eyes, carved with cunning skill into the glossy wood, made the impression that the bird was watching, hunting. He picked it up to study it.

"A hawk, messere," said the shopkeeper, and Sebastian felt a tiny clench in his heart. "A fine carving for the special lady in your life."

"My daughter," he said, and the lie slipped past his lips unhindered. "She adores birds in flight."

"Ah, a father as well?" The shopkeeper smiled a knowing smile and tapped two fingers on the cloth of the table between them in a local sign of appreciation and acknowledgement. "You look to miss her very much."

"Incredibly so," he said. "It seems like forever since my last visit home."

"Ah, when I was a young man such as yourself, my shop traveled Nevarra and into Orlais. I can understand your pain. My daughters missed me terribly." He held his hands out. "For a fellow family man, I cannot do anything but offer a discount. Fifty silver, and it is yours."

Sebastian knew the opening salvo of a haggle when he heard one. "Surely that's not the best you can do for a poor courier? Thirty-five silver is much more palatable."

The shopkeeper gave a mock scowl, but his eyes twinkled in mirth. "Messere, you would drive me into the poorhouse! I cannot go lower than forty-five."

Sebastian grinned. "Forty, and you have a deal."

They shook on it, and Sebastian counted out the silver. He had no real idea why he'd decided to buy the bracelet, not really, but the shopkeeper wrapped it and he placed it in his pouch anyway. What was done was done. Still, it was a beautiful piece, and he had little enough in the way of possessions these days as it was.

He continued on his way, wandering back to the inn as his errands for the day were finished. Supplies for the trip back to Starkhaven were purchased, he'd gotten his share of fresh air, and he was convinced that whoever had followed him earlier in the morning was well and truly lost now. He could not feel eyes on the back of his head any longer, and he allowed himself to relax as he made his way up the steps, past the small waif and into the inn. He nodded to the landlady as he passed, continuing up the stairs to his room.

He entered and dropped his parcels in the corner of the room. He caught a glimpse of movement in the silvered, cloudy glass of the mirror, and whirled.

He was too late.

A burlap sack dropped over his head, and a sharp blow to the back of his head ensured he knew no more.

* * *

"Wake up." A sharp slap to his face roused him. "Get the bucket."

He spluttered as icy water drenched him. Another blow had him reeling.

"Enough, Farley." The voice was curt, and the hulking presence at his side faded. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

"Are we awake, then?" the voice came from his left, and he looked up to see a well-dressed man gazing at him. He caught the glint of gold in the candlelight, and blinked water from his eyes. A black silk eyepatch, embroidered with golden thread in the shape of an eye, greeted his hazy vision as he sat up, aching and miserable.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked. He had a sneaking suspicion, but it was always a good way to get one's bearings back. Light filtered into the room from the cracked boards of the ceiling, and Sebastian could smell the damp earth of a cellar around him. He swallowed, his eyes flicking around him. Torches guttered in their holders, hiding the men in the shadows they cast. He could hear them, however, muttering amongst themselves as their leader stood before him.

"I would think you'd be hidden far better than you are, you know," said the man, a touch of humor to his voice. "You were far too easy to track and find. Gus knew just where you'd go, and he was right. He thanks you for the copper."

The boy. Sebastian stifled an inner groan, instead fixing his eyes on the man in the eyepatch. He was tall, built with rangy muscle along his frame. Sandy hair bound in a club behind his head with a leather thong, he moved with the easy grace of someone used to wielding a sword. Sebastian was reminded of Fenris in the way he moved, walking on the balls of his feet and rippling with the threat of movement.

"And what do you want from me?" There was no real malice in it, just curiosity. He had been caught by his own stupidity, it was only fair to ask.

He was tied to the chair, his wrists bound behind him through the slats in the back and his legs bound to the chair. He tested the bonds, flexing his arms and legs, and found them secure.

Damn.

"Why, Prince Sebastian, I would think you'd be aware of the bounty on your head, placed by the true Prince of Starkhaven, Goran Vael?"

Sebastian resisted the urge to spit at his cousin's name. "If Goran Vael is the true heir to the throne of Starkhaven, then you're Varric Tethras's long lost twin, messere. I'd laugh, but I find no humor in the situation. Besides, you lack the chest hair."

"Regardless of your opinion of his highness's legitimacy, there is the small matter of the huge sum of money being offered for your capture," said the man in the eyepatch. His accent was faint, but he sounded Ferelden. It made him homesick for something he could never have again. He shook the errant thought away, driving it back to be worried about later.

"How much?" he asked.

Bandits, at the worst, mercenaries, at best. The eternal question, then: gold.

"Fifteen hundred sovereigns, if you're brought in alive," he replied, a smile quirking the corners of his lips. "Considerably less if you're already dead, so please don't give Farley an excuse."

There was a grunt from the shadows, and the smile widened. Sebastian paled a little at the sum. That was far more than he had in his bags, even with his careful spending. He had been well and truly caught, and it was his own fault.

_Damn._ There would be no rescue. His every ally was gone, the bridges there turned to ash in the wake of his explosive anger.

"I'll double it." He tried for the bluff, the lie tripping off his tongue faster than it should have. The single eye narrowed, and the man stepped forward.

"We searched your things. You carry less than five sovereigns after your spending spree in the market today, and you promise us three thousand sovereigns?" The laughter was coarse, rippling through the room. "Princeling, you barely have enough coin to rub together yourself, much less to pay my men's wages."

Mercenaries, then.

"You misunderstand me," he said. "I'm not looking to free myself. I'm looking to hire you."

The laughter got louder, until the man held up a hand. "Your offer is generous, but you'll not be able to pay us. I'm not in the market for work on promissory notes, boy."

"Who said anything about promissory notes?" He returned, his smile predatory. "I'm asking you to help me retake a principality. We can come to an arrangement that's mutually beneficial."

"I'm listening." He snapped his fingers and another chair appeared beside him, placed there by unseen hands. He straddled it, arms across the back as he watched Sebastian with that single, sharp eye.

"When you went through my things, you didn't look quite hard enough, it seems. If you cut the seam at the bottom of my pack, you'll find three hundred sovereigns rolled into the lining. Consider it your sign on bonus."

"One tenth of your offer, it seems. Fair wage, considering we haven't done anything yet. Check it."

There was the sound of fabric ripping, and Sebastian mourned the loss of a good pack. The hoot of discovery was loud, and a small smile broke out on the one-eyed man's face.

"Seems you're good on your word, Princeling. What's to keep me from taking that gold, delivering you to Goran Vael, and then walking away?"

"My counteroffer." Sebastian's eyes narrowed. "Help me retake the city, help me eject the pretender to the throne, and you will receive the rest of the money. To sweeten the deal, I am prepared to offer you looting rights to any noble's estate if they back Goran. This counteroffer comes with two conditions."

His eyebrows rose. "Conditions? You're hardly in a position to demand anything of us."

"But you're listening anyway, aren't you? The conditions are these: one, you are not to raid, burn, or loot anything from the homes of the common man, nor are you to hurt their families. Two: the Chantry and its works are off limits as well."

"Your first condition is accepted, we don't do that kind of thing." Sebastian scoffed. "Munroe's Bleeders do not kill the innocent or enslave the masses."

"And the second?"

"No deal. Chantries are the largest source of income in the region. You think we don't know that?"

"If you burn down or loot the Chantry in Starkhaven, you get nothing." Sebastian's jaw twitched. "It's not negotiable. There will be people flocking to the building for protection, so if you violate the second rule, you'll have violated the first as well. There are at least four estates that will be open for you to pluck your spoils from, and those have concrete evidence against them that they plotted against my family."

There was a long silence. The room itself held its breath, the occupants not moving as the leader of the mercenaries pondered the offer. He rose, stepping back from the chair and paced around behind Sebastian, who tried to slow his breathing and calm himself.

The sound of a knife being drawn made him tense, ready to rock forward as best he could to avoid the blow, but the blade sawed through his bonds instead. He brought his hands forward, wincing as the blood rushing back to his limbs made his fingers feel large and clumsy. The mercenary knelt in front of him and freed his legs. He looked up, the single blue eye glinting in amusement.

"You've just acquired the services of Munroe's Bleeders, your highness. Your terms are accepted."

* * *

A/N: No, I'm not dead, just working incredibly long hours that leave me fair exhausted and unable to write much. This chapter is short, but the peak of the action, and we'll see the story slide home soon. I estimate (based on what I have as a shoestring plot), that this one is likely to have about thirty, maybe thirty-five chapters. I will try to write longer chapters soon and get them out, but I am moving in two weeks and may disappear again. I apologize for the wait, Constant Readers, but know that I do read and love reviews, so thank you for your patience and understanding.

Lywinis


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